THE JOURNAL OF MARGARET A. FRINK

 

PREFACE

Owing to the many requests made by relatives and friends for a history of our journey across the plains to California, made in the summer of 1850, the minutes of which were kept by Mrs. Frink, I have concluded, even at this late day, to issue this book.

Although there may be some errors, it is practically a correct history.

L. Frink

Oakland, California, 1897

 

CHAPTER I.

Ledyard Frink was born and raised in the western part of New York. I, Margaret Ann Alsip, his wife, was born in Maryland, though partly raised in Virginia, on the banks of the Potomac River. From there we moved to Kentucky, where Mr. Frink and myself were married on the seventeenth day of April, 1839. We spent that summer in Cincinnati; and in October moved to make ourselves a home at Cheviot, six miles west of that city, where we continued to live very pleasantly till 1844, when we made up our minds to try our fortunes farther west. We situated ourselves one hundred and twenty-five miles from Cheviot, in the town of Martinsville, the county seat of Morgan County, Indiana. Here Mr. Frink engaged in merchandising, in which he succeeded very well. We continued to live here nearly six years during which time we built a pleasant and convenient residence, having large grounds about it. But we were not yet satisfied. The exciting news coming back from California of the delightful climate and abundance of gold, caused us to resolve, about December, 1849, that we would commence preparing to cross the plains by the spring of 1850

The first thing on Mr. Frink's part was to have a suitable wagon made for the trip while I hired a seamstress to make up a full supply of clothing. In addition to our finished articles of dress, I packed a trunk full of dress goods not yet made up. We proceeded in the spring to get our outfit completed. There was no one from our part of the country, so far as we knew, that intended to cross the plains that season, and we were obliged to make such preparations as our best judgment led us to do, without advice or assistance from others. We knew nothing of frontier life, nor how to prepare for it. And besides, we were met with all the discouragements and obstructions that our neighbors and the people of our county could invent or imagine, to induce us not to attempt such a perilous journey. But, nothing daunted, we kept at work in our preparations for the trip, thinking all the time that we should have to make the long journey by ourselves, as no one in all that part of the country was offering or expecting to go to California that season.

But it appeared as if there was a Providence planning for us. First, we had a boy that we had taken into our family to live with us when he was seven years of age, and now he was eleven. He was much attached to us and could not be reconciled to be left with his own friends and relatives. The child being so determined to cling to us, Mr. Frink consented to take him if his uncle and guardian, Mr. W. Wilson, would give his consent. This he very readily did, though with all his family opposed to the plan. The consent was given about four days before we started.

The wagon was packed and we were all ready to start on the twenty-seventh day of March. The wagon was designed expressly for the trip, it being built light, with everything planned for convenience. It was so arranged that when closed up, it could be used as our bedroom. The bottom was divided off into little compartments or cupboards. After putting in our provisions, and other baggage, a floor was constructed over all, on which our mattress was laid. We had an Indiarubber mattress that could be filled with either air or water, making a very comfortable bed. During the day we could empty the air out, so that it took up but little room. We also had a feather bed and feather pillows. However, until we had crossed the Missouri River, we stopped at hotels and farmhouses every night, and did not use our own bedding. After that, there being no more hotels nor houses, we used it continually all the way to California.

The wagon was lined with green cloth, to make it pleasant and soft for the eye, with three or four large pockets on each side, to hold many little conveniences, -looking-glasses, combs, brushes, and so on. Mr. Frink bought, in Cincinnati, a small sheet-iron cookingstove, which was lashed on behind the wagon. To prepare for crossing the deserts, we also had two Indiarubber bottles holding five gallons each, for carrying water.

Our outfit for provisions was plenty of hams and bacon, covered with care from the dust, apples, peaches, and preserved fruits of different kinds, rice, coffee, tea, beans, flour, corn-meal, crackers, sea-biscuit, butter, and lard” The canning of fruits had not been invented yet -at least not in the west, so far as we knew.

Learning by letters published in the newspapers, that lumber was worth $400.00 per thousand in California, while it was worth only $3.00 in Indiana, Mr. Frink concluded to send the material for a small cottage by the way of Cape Horn. The lumber was purchased and several carpenters were put to work. In six days the whole material was prepared, ready for putting it together. It was then placed on board a flatboat lying in White River, to be ready for the spring rise -as boats could not pass out except at high water. The route was down White River to the Wabash, to the Ohio, to the Mississippi, to New Orleans; thence by sail vessel around Cape Horn to Sacramento, where it arrived the following March, having been just one year on the voyage.

Our team consisted of five horses and two mules. We had two saddles for the riding-horses, one for Mr. Frink and one for myself.

I believe we were all ready to start on the morning of the 27th of March. On the evening before, the whole family, including my mother, were gathered together in the parlor, looking as if we were all going to our graves the next morning, instead of our starting on a trip of pleasure, as we had drawn the picture in our imagination. There we sat in such gloom that I could not endure it any longer, and I arose and announced that we would retire for the night, and that we would not start to-morrow morning, nor until everybody could feel more cheerful. I could not bear to start with so many gloomy faces to think of. So we all retired, but I think no one slept very much that night.

I believe Mr. Frink, more than myself, began to fully realize the great undertaking we were about to embark in, almost alone. Our conversation finally turned on the likelihood that a young man of our acquaintance, named Aaron Rose, might wish to go with us. Some remark he had made led us to think he might like to join us. But Mr. Frink was of the opinion that his father and mother would never let him go, as they were already wealthy people and had but two children with them. Besides, Mr. Rose had been a confidential clerk in Frink & Alsip's store in Martinsville, during the past three years, and could not be spared from the business, as my brother, Mr. A. B. Alsip, was to remain in Martinsville and carry on the merchandising as before. But, after discussing all these objections, Mr. Frink left the house early the next morning and went to Mr. Rose's residence, where he met the young man's father, and inquired of him if he had ever heard his son say anything about wishing to go to California. “Yes,” said the old gentleman, “and he has thought quite hard of you that you have never spoken to him on the subject. But he says he is determined to go when he is twenty-one years old.” Then the mother came in weeping, saying, “If he ever does go, I want him to go with Mr. and Mrs. Frink, for I know he will have a father and mother in them.” And it was decided on, by six o'clock that morning, that we should wait a few days longer, until the young man could be fitted out for the journey. I think all the young ladies in town offered to help, as he was a general favorite. And for the next three days there was a very busy time among his young acquaintances, in making him ready for the California journey. During the meantime, we were practising the driving of our four-horse wagon, with lines in hand, and gradually educating ourselves to bear the final separation from our relatives and friends. We were all ready to leave our home on Saturday, the thirtieth day of March.

We bade farewell to all our relatives, friends, neighbors, and acquaintances. Mr. Frink and myself, having each a horse to ride, rode out of town on horseback, and with the four-horse wagon, went seven miles before stopping for lunch. It. was a beautiful spring day. Our faces were not at last set westward. We arrived on the west bank of the Eel River about sundown. We were quite tired, and there being a large brick house near by, we inquired there for quarters for the night. It appeared that the landlady was, for the moment, in the stable, and, hearing our inquiry, she thrust her head out of the stable window and answered rather impatiently that she had no time to give to strangers; that she had a cow in the stable that she was going to break if it took her all night to do it; that we had better go on about three miles, where we might be accommodated with lodgings. This looked like a poor chance for us; but Mr. Frink was not to be discouraged in this manner. He went to the stable and gave the milkman such instructions as enabled him in a short time to bring the unruly cow under subjection, so that the old lady came out highly pleased, and allowed us to stay in the house all night.

Sunday, March 31. We continued our journey to-day and struck the national road at Manhattan, where we had dinner. We lost our road, however, and had to retrace about three miles. We stopped at night about twenty miles east of Terre Haute, and were very pleasantly entertained. The landlord of the hotel had been a sea-captain, and volunteered some advice that afterwards proved very beneficial to us, in regard to preparing to defend ourselves against the scurvy, from which so-many California emigrants had suffered in 1849.

Monday, April I. We started again in good spirits, everyone at the hotel, strangers and all, wishing us good luck on our long journey. On this great “national road” the towns are near together; and whenever we stopped, even to water the horses, there would be squads of people standing about, full of curiosity, and making comments upon ourselves and our outfit, thinking we were certainly emigrants bound for California. But some would remark, “There's a lady in the party ; and surely there's no man going to take a woman on such a journey as that, across the plains.” Then some of them would venture to approach the wagon and cautiously peep in; then, seeing a lady, they would respectfully take off their hats, with a polite salutation; and we felt that, if there was anything in having good wishes expressed for us, we should certainly have a successful and pleasant trip. We stopped to dine four miles east of Terre Haute. Here we heard a great many comments upon the hardihood of a woman attempting to make such a difficult journey.

We reached Terre Haute at two o'clock in the afternoon, and made some additions to our outfit. We laid in a supply of acid to take the place of vegetables after we should get out on the great plains. This is a beautiful town, situated on the east side of the Wabash River. Our outfit attracted much attention and was greatly admired, particularly our fine horses. The first California emigrants we had seen passed us here, they having been fitted out in this neighborhood. We passed them in the afternoon. We stopped at night nine miles west of Terre Haute. The accommodations were very poor. However, we were fully prepared to board ourselves whenever the people refused to accommodate us. Here we ate our supper from our tin plates and drank coffee from our tin cups for the first time. Mr. Frink expressed regret that we had omitted to bring our tea cups, and suggested that he would buy some when we came to the next town. But for my part, I was satisfied to do as other immigrants did, and if it was the fashion to drink out of tin, I was quite content to do so. The landlady was cross and snappish, thinking, I suppose, that we were not quite worthy of her valuable attention, though I tried to adapt myself, as far as possible, to her notions. However, she gave us a nice bed, and by the time we were ready to take our leave the next morning, she seemed to have concluded that we were tolerably respectable people.

Tuesday, April 2. We had a rather late start this morning, having some fixing up to do. We reached Paris, Illinois, in time for dinner, and found it quite a pretty place. It is something smaller than Martinsville, yet quite a tastefully built town, and has a large seminary for young ladies. Here again the inhabitants had many comments to make upon the propriety of a lady undertaking a journey of two thousand miles, across deserts and mountains infested with hostile savages. But they would finally wind up and conclude by saying that I was “certainly a soldier to attempt it;” and, putting their heads inside the wagon, they would wish us all possible success in the undertaking.

Wednesday, April 3. We staid last night on Grand Prairie. Our hostess and her husband were German people, and made us very comfortable. We traveled all day on the prairie. The distance was twelve miles between houses, and no timber in sight at many times, though occasionally we passed some beautifully timbered spots. We staid all night at a house on the west side of the prairie.

Thursday, April 4. We launched out on the fourteenmile prairie this morning, and such a time as we had, storming, snowing, and sleeting, -and we with no place of shelter. Before we had gone far, we came to a badlooking, muddy place, to avoid which he turned off the beaten track upon the grass, which looked firm and solid. To our astonishment, the horses broke through the sod, and, being unable to pull their feet out, they were all soon flat on the ground, and could not be gotten out until they were unhitched from the wagon. I stood in the sleet and held four horses for two hours, till I thought my feet were frozen. My cloak was frozen stiff, and I was chilled through and through.

While we were in this predicament, there came up a team with five men from Ohio, who stopped and helped us. They spaded the wagon out of the mud, and then hitched their horses to the hind axle, and we were pulled out safe; and we learned not to leave the beaten track again. I concluded after that, to ride my pony in preference to riding in the wagon. We came at last, to a half-way house of one room. They had a fire, and it was a real luxury to get warm once more. But it was a forlorn-looking set that had gathered there for shelter and a little rest. There was no woman in the company but myself. As soon as we were thawed out, we started to make the remaining seven miles of our day's journey. It was a hard day, and we did not get through till after dark.. Then we found good accommodations in a large backwoods cabin. There were two large rooms with great, wide fireplaces and huge, blazing logs piled on. That great, glowing fire I shall never forget, nor the bountiful supper table, with its good, warm coffee, and, best of all, the cheerful faces that welcomed us.

Friday, April 5. We had tolerably good roads to-day, through prairies. At night we stopped at the last house before entering another lonely prairie. This was thirty miles east of Springfield, Illinois. The landlord and landlady appeared somewhat independent and a little indifferent as to whether they would accommodate travelers or not; but they finally consented, and we passed the night under their roof very comfortably.

Saturday, April 6. I felt quite unwell this morning; but we traveled steadily all day, and reached Springfield, the state capital, at nine o'clock at night. The roads were very muddy and bad, but we could not get accommodations till we reached the city; and, it being late and very dark, we came to rather a poor hotel. But we were so tired we were glad to put up with even poor accommodations. We found considerable excitement prevailing over the report that a California emigrant had been murdered that day some ten miles west of the city, on the road we were to travel the next day. I then began to feel that we had undertaken a risky journey, even long before we came to the Indian country. We got out the Colt's revolver that night to see that it was in good order, and made ready to defend ourselves against attack; but happily we were not molested in any way. We concluded, however, that it would be prudent hereafter to answer all inquih ries with the reply that we were “on a trip to the far west,” and not, if we could avoid it, make it known that we had started for California.

Sunday, April 7. We traveled only fifteen miles to-day. We found good accommodations for ourselves, but our poor horses had to stand out-of-doors, though the night air was damp and chilly. For the first time, we found that horse feed was scarce, and the neighborhood had to be ransacked to get a sufficient supply.

Monday, April 8. We traveled through a beautiful country to-day, between Springfield and Jacksonville, and stopped at night five miles west of Jacksonville.

Tuesday, April 9. We traveled twenty-one miles to-day, crossing the Illinois River at Naples, which is quite a business-like place, on the east side of the river. A railroad runs from Naples to Quincy.

Wednesday, April 10. We traveled nineteen miles to-day, and stopped at a farmer's house, where we found very pleasant and agreeable folks. To-morrow we expect to cross the Mississippi River. We are now two hundred and seventy-seven miles from home.

 

CHAPTER II.

Thursday, April II. To-day we crossed the Mississippi River at Hannibal, Missouri, and traveled four miles west of the city. We got the privilege of stopping at a private farmhouse, it being then dark, where they consented to furnish us with supper and breakfast. After we had entered the house, the gentleman inquired of us what state we were from, to which we replied, “From Indiana.” The gentleman and his wife then stepped aside a little, and appeared to be considering the propriety of furnishing accommodations to people from a “free state,” for we were now in a “slave state,” where negro slaves were everywhere to be seen. The gentleman then very politely informed us that he did not think they could accommodate us with supper and breakfast. He asked, “Have you not a supply of provisions with you?” We replied. “Yes sir, plenty of it.” “Then, madam,” said he, “we will furnish you with a room, with everything you may need, and a servant to wait on you.” We were conducted into their parlor, where there was a large fireplace, with table and chairs, and a bed in one corner -all very good and comfortable. But some other parts of the house were not so nice as the kitchen we left in our Martinsville home.

They gave me a small negro girl to wait on me, and we had a very pleasant time all by ourselves, for we were provided with everything that the country afforded, in the way of provisions, both substantials and delicacies, so as to be prepared for all emergencies. But our prudent host and hostess did not see proper to show themselves to us any more that night. In the morning, however, as we were making our preparations for departure, the whole family made their appearance in numbers. I had put our room in good order, when the two young ladies came in, evidently curious to see a lady emigrant for California. When we were ready to get in our wagons and drive away, they all gathered around, admiring our nice outfit and our nice-looking horses.

“Dear me,” said the younger lady, “and are you really going across the plains to California?” “Yes, my dear,” I answered. “Are you not afraid of being burned black by the sun and wind on the plains?” “Oh, no ; and if I am, I can stay in the house until I am bleached out again I” “But there are no houses in California.” “Well, we have already sent our house on ahead.” “How did you send your house to California?” Then I told them: “We sent it on a flatboat down the west fork of White River to the Wabash, down the Wabash to the Ohio, down the Ohio to the Mississippi, and down the Mississippi to New Orleans. There it will be put on a sailing vessel, and go through the Gulf of Mexico into the Atlantic Ocean, and around past Cape Horn into the Pacific Ocean. Then it will go up the western coast to the 'Golden Gate,' into the Bay of San Francisco, and up the Sacramento River to the city of Sacramento, where it will meet us when we get there.”

When I had told them this, the interest and excitement were such that, by the time I was seated in the wagon, the whole family, black and white, had gathered about us. We afterwards learned that our landlord had been a member of the state Legislature the preceding winter. This was our first night in Missouri.

Friday, April 12. This was a very cold day. We traveled seventeen miles and were obliged to stop at a place with but few accommodations.

Saturday, April 13. We stopped for our noon lunch at Clinton, in Monroe County, where we overtook the Ohio train that had helped us out of the mud. We reached Paris, the county seat, at night, and stopped at the Paris Hotel, in company with the Ohio emigrants.

Sunday, April 14. The snow was two inches deep. We left about eleven o'clock and traveled seventeen miles over miserable roads. We got stuck in the mud again, and had to be pulled out by ox teams.

Monday, April 15. We traveled all day and reached a place four miles west of Huntsville, the county seat of Randolph County. It rained most of the day and the roads were very bad.

Tuesday, April 16. We remained in camp all day on account of the rain and the deep, muddy roads.

Wednesday, April 17. We had an unusual experience to-day. We traveled twenty-three miles, and as night approached, we found it almost impossible to get accommodations at the private farmhouses along the road, and there were no hotels except in the towns, and they were far apart. Near sundown, Mr. Frink, being on horseback, rode on ahead of the wagon to procure, if possible, shelter for the night, at a place said to be the last house for six miles. But, for some unknown reason, the people, when we reached there, refused to let us stay.

I felt very indignant at such treatment. It was now almost dark, and we knew not what to do. At last we heard of a hospitable lady, a Mrs. Barker, living several miles ahead, who would probably receive us. So Mr. Frink went forward alone in the darkness, while I was left to report to the wagons, which were still behind with the Ohio Company. When they arrived, we all followed the road which Mr. Frink had taken.

It was a moonlight night, which was very much in our favor. We soon came to a fork in the road. We were now in a dilemma, not knowing which road to take. In desperation, we took the left, and traveled on and on. I remained on horseback in preference to riding in the wagon, though the night was damp and chilly, one of the company being with me.

Among the company from Ohio were two brothers named Swift. By and by we heard talking in the distance, but could see no person and no house. We began to think of all kinds of dangers. Perhaps we were going to be trapped and robbed. Finally, I determined to follow up the sound of the voices, for I thought Mr. Frink might have been waylaid and perhaps murdered. At last we came to where several negroes were sitting on a fence. I inquired the way to Mrs. Barker's house. “Why, the Lord bless you, you done come the wrong road. You got to go back three miles and take the right-hand road to get to Mrs. Barker's house.” We turned back sorrowfully, and had not gone far before our wagons were caught in a bad place; but soon Mr. Frink appeared with a lantern and a guide, and, though the moon was down and the night was dark, we reached Mrs. Barker's at nine o'clock. She received us very kindly, though we were entire strangers. She had a good warm supper awaiting us, with a great rousing fire in the parlor, and plenty of darkies to wait on us and do our bidding. The explanation of her warm-hearted hospitality was this: Mrs. Barker's husband had crossed the plains to California in 1849, and she felt so much sympathy with the travelers to the land of gold, she was determined that all who stopped at her house should be well taken care of.

Thursday, April 18. We came at night to the house of a Mr. McKinney, called “Squire McKinney,” and were very hospitably welcomed. Mrs. McKinney had a nephew who went to California in 1849, and she told me of the wonderful tales of the abundance of gold that she had heard; “that they kept flour-scoops to scoop the gold out of the barrels that they kept it in, and that you could soon get all that you needed for the rest of your life. And as for a woman, if she could cook at all, she could get $16.00 per week for each man that she cooked for, and the only cooking required to be done was just to boil meat and potatoes and serve them on a big chip of wood, instead of a plate, and the boarder furnished the provisions.” I began at once to figure up in my mind how many men I could cook for, if there should be no better way of making money.

Friday, April 19. The next “squire” we fell in with was “Squire Barnes.” We reached his place at nightfall and stayed all night. During the day one of the Ohio company, a Mr. Terrell, met with a serious accident, putting his shoulder out of joint. This detained us and prevented us from making a usual day's travel. We had to send eighteen miles for a doctor to reduce the dislocation.

Saturday, April 20. We traveled twenty-one miles to-day over desperate roads. We halted before sundown, and were entertained by some very nice people.

Sunday, April 21. We traveled twenty-two miles today and staid all night at Plattsburg. Here we heard more wonderful tales of California and the gold mines.

Monday, April 22. We came to-day within nine miles of St. Joseph, which is situated on high bluffs, on the east side of the Missouri River.

Tuesday, April 23. We got into St. Joseph at 10 o'clock this morning. The whole country around the town is filled with encampments of California emigrants. This is the head of the emigration at the present time. They have gathered here from the far east and south, to fit out and make final preparations for launching out on the great plains, on the other side of the Missouri River.

Every house of entertainment in the city is crowded to its full capacity. This has been a backward spring season, and thousands are patiently waiting for the grass to grow, as that will be the only feed for their stock, after crossing to the west side and getting into the Indian country.

We drove out of town two miles northward, on the road to Savannah; and, finding a comfortable log cabin, we rented it from the owner, Mr. Compton, who had built a new cabin which he had just moved into. The cabin was quite well furnished and had good beds. There was also a large fireplace, with plenty of wood close at hand. We here settled ourselves for housekeeping, until the grass should grow on the Kansas and Nebraska prairies, and remained for the next fifteen days.

We still lacked something to complete our stock of supplies; for we had neither pickles, potatoes, nor vinegar. The army of emigration was so numerous that the demand for these and many other articles could only with difficulty be fully supplied. Mr. Frink traveled sixteen miles through the farming country searching for pickled cucumbers.

He was fortunate enough to find a bushel still in the salt, which he bought and brought back with him. This, with some horseradish and one peck of potatoes, was all he could find in the way of vegetables. I prepared these very carefully, and put them up in kegs with apple vinegar; these were to be our principal defense against that dreadful disease, the scurvy, from which the overland emigrants of 1849 had suffered so severely -not only while on the journey, but long after reaching California.

We had some old friends living near Cincinnati, our former home, who came by steamer down the Ohio and up the Missouri to St. Joseph, with their outfit, horses and wagons. Among them were two brothers of the name of Carson, who were raised within six miles of Cincinnati, and twin brothers by the name of McMeans, and a Mr. Miles -making five persons in their company. There was also Mr. Silver's company from the same city. They all came and camped near our cabin, waiting, like ourselves, for the grass to grow, and making the last preparations for the final start. It gave our camping ground the appearance of a village in beautiful woods. The country surrounding St. Joseph is a delightful region. Mr. Frink and myself admired it very much; and we thought that if we were not bound for California, we should like to settle here.

Not many days had passed before we began to hear frightful tales of Indian depredations on the plains, which had a tendency, at first, to shake the resolution of some members of the party. However, we finally concluded that our arrangements were so complete that we were certain to get through safely if anyone could; and so the Indian stories ceased to give us any uneasiness or anxiety.

Mr. Frink met here one day a man named Avery, who had come from the same country we had started from, without any team or company, hoping that he could find at St. Joseph some one who would be willing to take him to California. So we agreed to take him in our company -the more readily as we had begun to feel that we were hardly strong-handed enough to be perfectly safe in the Indian country. For, besides Mr. Frink and myself, the only persons in our immediate party were Mr. Aaron Rose, the confidential clerk, and a boy eleven years old, Robert Parker. This new arrangement required us now to buy another wagon, and a supply of provisions for our new associate.

Wednesday, May 8. At last we were all rigged out for the journey. We had two wagons, one drawn by four horses, a lighter one drawn by two horses, besides two saddle-horses for Mr. Frink and myself. We were ready to start to-day, and decided that we would travel up along the east side of the Missouri River before attempting to cross over to the west side. During our very first day's journey something about one of the wagons was broken, so we only went as far as Savannah, where we stopped overnight to have the wagon repaired. Here we found some Indiana emigrants, who called on us, and had us stay in their company that night. Here we again heard alarming and discouraging accounts of deeds of violence and bloodshed that had recently been committed on the plains, along the route that we were very soon to travel over.

Thursday, May 9. We remained all day in camp at Savannah, waiting for our wagon to be repaired.

Friday, May 10. Our wagon having been put in good order and all made ready, we left Savannah this morning and drove twenty-three miles up the east bank of the Missouri River.

Saturday, May 11. Starting early, we drove twenty-eight miles to-day, and stopped one mile from the stream called Big Tarchio.

Sunday, May 12. We drove twenty miles to-day, and staid two miles north of Linden, at a miserable place. The boys for the first time slept in the wagon.

Monday, May 13. This day brought us to the crossing of the Missouri River, ten miles below old Fort Kearney, which stands at the mouth of the Platte River. Here we found a number of wagons and the Carson boys waiting to be crossed over in an old fashioned ferry-boat. Mr. Bullard and Mr. Bray were here with a train of wagons, loaded with merchandise for Salt Lake City. We learned that they were old Santa Fe traders. They were registered to cross first at the ferry, and so they went ahead, as each party must take its regular turn as registered on the ferry-book. This was known as Bullard's Ferry.

This was our first night in a camp. Thus far we had staid in a house every night since we left home. We enjoyed the change very much, and really thought we had lost a great deal of comfort in putting up with the miserable accommodations that we so often had met with; for here, on the banks of this majestic river, surrounded with the freshness of the budding spring, it was a delightful change.

We are now six hundred and thirteen miles from home. The elevation of this place is nine hundred and fifty feet above the Gulf of Mexico and about four hundred feet above our old home. So we have already begun to climb.

 

CHAPTER III.

Tuesday, May 14. We were safely across the wide and muddy-colored stream by eleven o'clock this morning. Now that we are over, and the wide expanse of the great plains is before us, we feel like mere specks on the face of the earth.

I think none of us have realized until now the perils of this undertaking. During the past week not much has been discussed but the Indians and their doings. Printed circulars have been distributed informing the emigrants of many Indian depredations. Now I begin to think that three men, one woman, and one eleven-year old boy, only armed with one gun and one Colt's revolver, are but a small force to defend themselves against many hostile Indian tribes, along a journey of two thousand miles.

The Carson company of five men were crossed over at the same time that we were. They confidently talked as if they had studied everything pertaining to Indians and their tactics, and had nothing to fear from them. I had a very strong feeling at the same time, that these men would have felt more at ease if there had not been a woman in the party, to be taken care of in case of danger. However, each company was wholly independent of the others, and our wagons became separated from the other trains. During the day I began to feel, and so expressed myself to the rest of the company, that for greater safety it would be well if we could fall in with some strong company and unite with them for mutual protection; but when camping time came, late in the afternoon, and night was drawing nigh, our little party was all alone. We picked out a camping-ground on a rolling knoll, so that we could the better defend ourselves in case we were attacked during the night. But no one except myself expressed any fear of the savages; it was all nonsense to think they would attack us. But the first thing I did after we halted, was to get out the field telescope which we carried, to see if I could find any Indians; and sure enough I soon espied a party of them riding on an elevated ridge a long way off.

I announced my discovery to the camp. Other glasses were got out and leveled in that direction. All agreed that I was right. Then everyone went quickly to work to put our camp in the best condition for defense.

A few minutes later, to our great delight, a company of five fine-looking men from Michigan drove up and asked the privilege of camping with us that night. We were more than glad to have our force increased by the addition of a party of such resolute-looking men, and readily gave our consent. We informed them of our discovery of Indians scouting at a distance. The wagons were then placed in position to form a corral, or circular inclosure, and picket-pins or stakes were driven down in the center, to tie our horses to after they had done grazing. All our ropes and lariats were made ready for the same purpose. After our supper was over and it was fairly dark, all the horses were brought in from their grazing ground and tied and doubly tied to the picket-pins and stakes inside the corral. The wagons were then securely fastened together, to form a solid barrier against a stampede, and every precaution was adopted that would increase our safety. The next thing was to see that our firearms were in good order. Then the guards for the night were appointed for the different watches. Finally the camp-fires were extinguished and the little circular village on the knoll was left in darkness. But no one was inclined to sleep, and I do not think anyone retired but Mr. Frink. He evidently thought that the others were pretty badly scared, and therefore there would be enough to watch, so he could sleep undisturbed. For my part, I did not change my clothing during the entire night, neither shoes nor bonnet.

I sat up all night in the wagon to see that the guards kept awake, though it was too dark to see any distance. Once in a while, however, one of the guards would step up to the wagon and cautiously whisper that “no Indians had been seen yet.” This, in a measure, would relieve my apprehensions; but still I was in such a state of anxiety and suspense that when I thought Mr. Frink was sleeping too soundly and breathing too heavily, I would arouse him; I could not understand how he could sleep soundly when there was so much danger. In this manner passed our first night on those vast, uninhabited plains. But by the time the day dawned and the guards came in, I was out and had a fire made and breakfast under way.

Wednesday, May 15. When we drove out from our fortified camp on the elevated knoll, and reached the main traveled road again, we met a large train of wagons from Ohio and Michigan. We kept in company with them during the day and encamped with them at night. Our party was now increased to fifty or more. We all traveled together for the next week.

Thursday, May 16. It was about half past six when we started this morning, but we traveled nearly twentyfive miles before night.

The Ohio and Michigan trains who were with us were fitted out with hardy Canadian ponies, small but tough, and capable of enduring greater hardships than ordinary horses. But the drivers were in too great a hurry to get to California before all the gold was dug out, and traveled too fast. Many of our party being young, inexperienced men, thought it necessary for us to pass all the ox teams and loose cattle on the road, fearing there would be no feed left for our own stock. They would whip up furiously and try to pass every train they overtook.

This did not accord with Mr. Frink's best judgment. Our own horses, like most of the western horses, were large and had been accustomed all their lives to be fed on corn. And now, to get nothing to eat but the scanty new grass of the plains, they could not endure what the sturdy Canadians could, and so after the first week had passed we traveled more slowly.

We encamped at. night on Salt Creek, which runs northeast into the Platte River. Here Mr. Avery, the man who had joined our party at the camp below Savannah, caught a fine lot of catfish, which we enjoyed very much for supper.

Friday, May 17. This morning we started again at half past six, following, in a westerly direction, the well-traveled road which had been used for many years by teams hauling supplies to the frontier forts. Fort Kearney, at the head of Grand Island, is two hundred miles from the Missouri River. Fort Laramie, at the foot of the Black Hills, is about three hundred and fifty miles further; and Fort Hall, once an English trading post, is about five hundred and thirty miles still beyond. The road along here was in good condition, all the bad streams being bridged.

Saturday, May 18. To-day we traveled about twenty miles, descending the steep bluffs from the high plains, over which we have been marching ever since we crossed the Missouri River, to the low bottom of the Platte River, and coming for the first time to its south bank. Here we encamped for the night, finding grass and fire-wood very scarce.

This river differs from all those we have been accustomed to. A shallow groove, or flat, low valley, from ten to twenty miles wide, has been scooped out of the sandy plains for four hundred miles from the “Black Hills” to the Missouri. Along each side are bold, sandy bluffs, one hundred and fifty feet high. In the bottom of this valley the Platte River has cut out for itself a winding channel from six to ten feet deep and from one to two miles wide.

The valley, as well as the extensive plains on each side, is totally devoid of timber or undergrowth of any kind, except where a few straggling cottonwoods and willow thickets, long distances apart, stand close to the water's edge. In four hundred miles the descent of the stream is twenty-four hundred feet, or six feet to the mile, producing a swift current that plows out deep pools in its bed, and piles up high bars of quicksand, so that the volume of water is constantly changing from one to six feet in depth.

Our road from this point follows the south bank of the main stream and of its northern branch for four hundred and fifty miles. Fifty miles beyond it meets the Sweetwater, which leads two hundred miles further, to the South Pass.

Sunday, May 19. We are resting to-day, remaining in camp by the river. Near us are a few cottonwoods. There are no groves or forests in sight. We left all forests behind us at the Missouri River. Here the whole earth, as far as the eye can reach, is naked and bare except that a thin growth of grass partly hides the sandy ground.

During the day we thought it prudent to organize our forces for protection against the Indians, and to insure the safety of our stock at night. Something like a military system was adopted, with proper officers. In case of an attack by Indians, each man was expected to be at his appointed post. Mr. Frink was elected captain. Four men were to be detailed every night to stand guard over the horses, and bring them in the next morning. As there were now nearly fifty men in the party, no one person would have to stand guard oftener than once in ten or twelve days.

We had passed through the lands of the Pottawattamies, but without seeing any, and without molestation. The Kickapoos and Nemahas were sixty miles south, on the Blue Rivers. But ahead of us were many oher tribes, -the Pawnees, Sioux, Cheyennes, Blackfeet, and others, not supposed to be very friendly. We therefore thought it best to be fully prepared for them.

Monday, May 20. It was about six o'clock when we started this morning. We had with us some guidebooks (Fremont's and Palmer's), from which we learned that to-day we would pass the village of the Pawnee Indians, who had the name of being very warlike. In anticipation, every gun and pistol was put in good order, and regular military tactics were observed. At ten o'clock we came to the village, which was situated on a ridge extending nearly to the river. But instead of a bloody fight, which some expected, we took the village without firing a gun. From appearances, the place had not been occupied for years. There was nothing to indicate a village, except some tentpoles and a quantity of buffalo bones and those of other animals, that may have been killed for food. Our military prowess all disappeared in a twinkling. Up to this time we had seen but a single Indian, and he was a long way off. We learned afterwards that the tribe had removed about one hundred miles to the northward, to the Loup Fork of the Platte, where their chief village is, and where they raise considerable corn, during the times when they are not hunting or fighting.

In the afternoon we came to the junction of the emigrant road from St. Joseph with our road, about twenty-five miles below New Fort Kearney. That road ran westward from St. Joseph to the Blue Rivers, and up the Little Blue to its head, where it turned to the northward across the high plains to the Platte. Here the two roads met. Both roads were thickly crowded with emigrants. It was a grand spectacle when we came, for the first time, in view of the vast emigration, slowly winding its way westward over the broad plain.

The country was so level that we could see the long trains of white-topped wagons for many miles. Finally, when the two roads came together, and the army which had crossed the Missouri River at St. Joseph joined our army, which had crossed the river above Savannah, it appeared to me that none of the population had been left behind. It seemed to me that I had never seen so many human beings in all my life before. And, when we drew nearer to the vast multitude, and saw them in all manner of vehicles and conveyances, on horseback and on foot, all eagerly driving and hurrying forward, I thought, in my excitement, that if one-tenth of these teams and these people got ahead of us, there would be nothing left for us in California worth picking up.

Mr. Frink was not with our wagons just at this moment; he had either ridden ahead to look for grass, or was with some one behind. So I took the responsibility, and gave orders to the drivers to whip up, to drive fast and get ahead of that countless throng of wagons. But in a little while Mr. Frink appeared, and wanted to know of the drivers what they had got in such a hurry about. Already the horses were showing signs of being fretted; and Mr. Frink at once instructed the drivers that it would not do to attempt to travel at that rate of speed if we expected ever to reach California. But I was half frantic over the idea that every blade of grass for miles on each side of the road would be eaten off by the hundreds and thousands of horses, mules, and oxen ahead of us. And, worse than all, there would only be a few barrels of gold left for us when we got to California.

Mrs. McKinney, at whose house in Missouri we stopped on the night of the 18th of April, was responsible for my belief that it would be an easy thing to collect barrels of gold. And when, looking forward or backward at this place on the Platte, it seemed as if a number of cities had gathered here with all their people, on the same errand of seeking for gold, I was impatient at our slow progress, but we gradually toned down. In a few days the crowd strung out more evenly along the road, and was not gathered in such great masses.

There were all conceivable kinds of conveyances. There was a cart drawn by two cows, a cart drawn by one ox, and a man on horseback drove along an ox packed with his provisions and blankets. There was a man with a hand cart, another with a wheelbarrow loaded with supplies. And we were not yet two hundred miles from the Missouri River. The journey was only fairly commenced.

Tuesday, May 21. Leaving our camp in the Platte bottom at the usual hour, we traveled all day up the broad valley. With the exception of a muddy creek, or slough, now and then, the road was very good. During the day we passed New Fort Kearney, a small United States military station near the bank of the river, the walls of which were constructed largely of sods cut out in large blocks, and laid up as adobes are laid in California. This is the first human habitation we have seen since crossing the Missouri, two hundred miles distant. From that point we have been steadily climbing up hill, the altitude here being twenty-one hundred and fifty feet, which is twelve hundred feet higher than Bullard's Ferry. We camped to-night on the bank of the river.

Wednesday, May 22. After we had started this morning, there was great excitement over a buffalo chase, opposite the head of Grand Island in Platte River. Some of our men partook of the excitement. As far as we could see, everyone that was on horseback went flying in the direction of the buffalo. Our men gave the saddle-horses a fatiguing run, but not without a reprimand from Mr. Frink when they returned. He informed them very distinctly that he had not started for California to hunt Buffalo. But I really could not blame the men very much, though the chase was bad for the horses. The animation and excitement of the moment beat anything I ever saw, and I would not, for a good deal, have missed the sight of that great chase over that grand plain. Some one brought us a piece of buffalo steak, so that we were not without a share of the prize.

The road to-day continued level and good, with exception of some muddy places and small gullies, which gave us no trouble. Fire-wood is scarce, there being none except along the river bank. Every stray piece we find we pick up and carry with us. The camp to-night presented the appearance of a village of tents and white-topped wagons.

Thursday, May 23. We are now in the midst of the buffalo country; but to our disappointment, we have seen only the small herd that came in sight yesterday. There are hundreds of thousands of them on these plains; but the emigration has frightened them to the right and to the left, away from the road, so that they are seldom seen. We often pass the bones and skulls in great numbers, where they have been killed by the Indians.

Friday, May 24. We left camp at the usual hour. The road often leaves the river to cross a large bend, and does not reach it again at camping-time. In such cases, the only resource for water is by digging wells a few feet deep. But the well water is usually muddy and warm. The soil is a kind of sandy loam, through which the river water makes its way, under the entire bottom.

Our chief inconvenience here is the want of firewood. There being no timber except the few cottonwoods and willows along the river, it often happens that we find hardly enough to cook our meals. But Mr. Frink adopted the plan of gathering up all the fragments we found and hauling them until time of need.

To-day the line of white wagons reaches out to the front and to the rear farther than we can see. Among such an army, we have little fear of trouble from Indians.

Saturday, May 25. Still traveling up the Platte. The road is a little monotonous. The scenery does not change much. The river has a winding course, and contains many islands. Some are little more than sand bars, others are covered with low willows. The road is at times along the river bank, and again near the bluffs on our left. The bluffs are getting higher. The face is gullied with deep ravines, in which cedar shrubs are growing, the first we have seen.

From our guide-books we learn that in a few days we shall reach the South Fork of the Platte, beyond which the face of the country changes.

Sunday, May 26. This is the day of rest, but there is not much rest crossing the plains. If our camp is at a place where there is neither grass nor water, we are compelled to travel on until we find them. And in camp there is no end of necessary work. Wagons, harness, and clothing have to be mended, washing to be done, animals to be changed on the pasture and guarded, innumerable small things to be looked after.

There is no time for reading, and there are neither newspapers nor letters to read. We have not heard from home since we left, nearly two months ago, and do not expect to until we arrive at Sutter's Fort, three months hence.

Monday, May 27. To-morrow will bring us to the South Fork, which we are told we must ford. From what we have seen of the river so far, it looks rather dangerous to cross, and we have some apprehensions of difficulty. But it may not so bad when we come to it. If we get safely over, we expect to reach a more interesting country to travel through.

The South Fork heads in a southwest direction from here, among the highest peaks of the Rocky Mountains. Our road will lead us up the North Fork of the Platte, and up its main branch, the Sweetwater, to the South Pass.

Our military organization has fallen to pieces. Those who were in so much of a hurry have driven ahead, reducing our number to about twenty-five. Mr. Frink thought the only sure way to get to California with our animals was to drive slowly. We have found, too, that it is best to travel in small parties, on account of the scarcity, in many places, of grass and water. Many camping places that would afford enough for a small train, would not supply a large company.

Tuesday, May 28. We left our camp near the river about half past six, and in a few miles came to the South Fork, a short distance above the junction, where we were to cross. A great crowd of emigrants was encamped here, making all preparations, though a great many of them were undecided what was best to do. We heard all kinds of reports as to the best route to take, for everyone was ignorant. Some thought they would follow up the valley of the South Platte, on the south side; but the majority decided to ford the river at this point. On the whole long journey to California there were neither ferries nor bridges, except a ferry at North Platte and one at Green River, and the small bridges back near Salt River, and a little one in Carson Cañon.

The stream we had now reached was fearful to look at, -rushing and boiling and yellow with mud, a mile wide, and in many places of unknown depth. The bed was of quicksand -this was the worst difficulty. But there was no way to do but to ford it. So we started down the bank and into the raging water.

From a guide-book we had with us, we learned that the proper way to cross the stream was to take a diagonal course, -first down the stream, then up again. Accordingly, after driving into the water, we turned down at an angle of forty-five degrees till we had reached the middle of the river; then, turning up stream at the same angle, we arrived safely at the northern bank, nearly opposite our point of entrance.

Of all the excitements that I ever experienced or thought of, the crossing of that river was the greatest. A great many other wagons and people were crossing at the same time -mule teams, horse teams, ox teams, men on horseback, men wading and struggling against the quicksands and current, many of them with long poles in their hands, feeling their way. Sometimes they would be in shallow water only up to their knees; then, all at once, some unlucky one would plunge in where it was three or four feet deep.

The deafening noise and halloing that this army of people kept up, made the alarm in the river more intense. The quicksand and the uncertainty of depth of water kept all in a state of anxiety. Our horses would sometimes be in water no more than a foot deep; then, in a moment, they would go down up to their collars. On one occasion I was considerably alarmed. Several other wagons, in their haste, had crowded in ahead of us on both sides, and we were compelled to stop for several minutes. Our wagon at once began to settle in the quicksand, and it required the assistance of three or four men lifting at the wheels, to enable the horses to pull out.

Where we crossed, the river was a mile wide, and we were just three-quarters of an hour in getting over. I here date one of the happiest and most thankful moments of my life to have been when we landed safe on the north side. The danger in the crossing consisted in the continual shifting of the sandy bed, so that a safe ford to-day might be a dangerous one to-morrow.

We were now nine-hundred and thirteen miles from home.

The next excitement we met with was some day after, when the rumor came back from the front that the grass ahead was all burned off. What was to become of us, with nothing for our horses to eat, and we unable to go either forward or backward?

But we out-traveled this rumor in a day. We were journeying, of course, in the dark all the time, and never knew what was in store for us ahead.

The elevation of this point is two thousand seven hundred and ninety feet above the Gulf of Mexico.

 

CHAPTER IV.

Wednesday, May 29. At broad mass of high, rugged mountains filled most of the space between the two forks of the Platte. The point comes down opposite the ford. Many of the emigrants turned to the left, up the· South Fork for six miles, then crossed over the hills to the North Fork valley. Our party bore to the right at the ford, and in half an hour came to the low point of the great promontory. This was the outermost spur of the Rocky Mountain chain, and here, for the first time, our wheels and horses' hoofs struck its solid granite ledges. We crossed without difficulty, and drove up the valley of the North Fork for several miles, before going into camp. The valley here is about five miles wide, level, but more sandy than below. High, rocky ridges border it on both sides. There is some undergrowth in the side cañons, but generally timber is scarce. Sometimes we find no firewood, and have to draw from our stock in the wagon.

Thursday, May 30. The road continues up the valley, along the south side of the river. Occasionally it leaves the river, to pass over and around the bluffs. In the cañons the heat is oppressive. This valley is claimed by the Sioux Indians, a large tribe once hostile to the whites. We are now getting near the sagebrush region, that we have heard so much about. The roads continue heavy and very dusty.

Friday, May 31 . We expect to reach in a few days some great natural curiosities. One is a large rock in shape like a court-house, or a church without a steeple. The other is a tall, square tower or chimney, which can be seen for a long distance. We are also on the lookout for Indians, though they are thought to be friendly. Our large company is reduced to but a few persons, and our horses are strictly guarded every night.

Saturday, June 1. To-day the bluffs came to the river and cut off our passage along the bank. We had to climb a long hill to go around. We descended to the river again through a deep ravine called Ash Hollow, where Colonel Harney, with a detachment of United States Regulars, had a severe fight with the Sioux, several years ago.

The heavy sand and hard climbing begin to tell on the strength of our horses. Feed is often scarce and they suffer in consequence.

Sunday, June 2. We remained in camp all day, repairing our small wagon. The hind axle was broken. Mr. Frink had seen a wagon abandoned, near the road at Ash Hollow. He went back with a man to-day, and took out the bolts and brought the hind axle and wheels to camp. It was then fitted to the small wagon in place of he old axle, and did very well.

Monday, June 3. We traveled ten miles to-day and stopped on good grass. In the afternoon we passed an Indian encampment numbering seventy tents. They belonged to the Sioux tribe, but were quite friendly. The squaws were much pleased to see the “white squaw” in our party, as they called me. I had brought a supply of needles and thread, some of which I gave them. We also had some small mirrors in gilt frames, and a number of other trinkets, with which we could buy fish and fresh buffalo, deer, and antelope meat. But money they would not look at.

A heavy storm of wind and rain came up afterwards, which we prepared ourselves for by picketing down the wagons with ropes fastened to stakes, and tying the horses securely.

Tuesday, June 4. In the morning it was raining some and Mr. Frink got breakfast. We had been closely on the lookout, and at three o'clock we came in sight of the famous “Court-house Rock,” eighteen miles distant, and many miles south of the road. It presented a very imposing appearance. “Chimney Rock” also came in sight, about thirty miles further on. Our camp at night was made nearly opposite the Court-house Rock, and six miles distant; but the atmosphere was so clear that it did not seem to be more than a mile away. Many persons, thinking they could walk to the rock in a few minutes, would start out on foot to examine it more closely; but after walking for an hour, finding it to be as far off as ever, apparently, would give up the attempt.

Wednesday, June 5. The weather to-day was quite hot and oppressive. We had to cross a long stretch without water. The road we took led us close to the base of Chimney Rock, where we stopped for some time to satisfy our curiosity. The base is shaped like a large cone, from the top of which rises a tall tower or chimney, resembling the chimney of a manufacturing establishment. According to Fremont, it was once five hundred feet high, but has been worn down by the winds and rains until it is no more than two hundred and fifty feet in height. It is composed of marl and soft sandstone, which is easily worn away. Mr. Frink carved our names upon the chimney, where are hundreds of others.

Thursday, June 6. We came to Scott's Bluffs to-day. When we reached there, we found water in a deep gully on the left side of the road, where a great many thirsty people were waiting for water. There was a very small weeping spring, where we caught the water in a cup, as it wept out from under the rocks.

Friday, June 7. To-day we crossed over the bluffs, and encamped near the Platte River, not far from Horse Creek.

Saturday, June 8. The mail-carriers passed us on a trot this morning, going to the summit of the Rocky Mountains, where a post-office for the accommodation of the emigrants was established. When we came to the Laramie River, the water was very high, and ran into our wagon. This is a dangerous ford, where a number of persons have been drowned.

At four o'clock we arrived at the place we have so long been anxious to reach, -Fort Laramie. This outpost formerly belonged to the American Fur Company, who built it as a protection against the savages, then very numerous and hostile. After the United States Government bought it, they sent regular troops to protect the emigration.

The fort is one hundred and eighty feet square, having adobe walls fifteen feet high, on the inside of which are rooms built against the walls all around, of the same material. The parade-ground in the center is one hundred and thirty feet square. On top of the wall are wooden palisades. Over the front gateway is a square tower with loopholes for rifles.

As it is not our intention to go by Salt Lake, this is the last human habitation we shall see until we reach Fort Hall, five hundred and thirty miles further on.

The altitude of Fort Laramie is four thousand four hundred and seventy feet. This is almost four thousand feet higher than our starting-point. But we are not yet half way up to the highest point of our road, and have traveled not half its length. Our camp last night was on the forty-second parallel of north latitude, -two and a half degrees north of that of Martinsville.

We should have been glad to stop here and rest a while, before starting out on the next stretch of our long, mountainous journey. But it was necessary to find a good camping-place for the night, and we tarried but a short time. Three miles beyond, we found good feed and there made our camp.

Sunday, June 9. We remained in this camp all day, resting as much as is possible on such a journey and under such circumstances. But it was a very different Sunday from those we had been always accustomed to at home.

Monday, June 10. It was at this camp that we had to leave our cooking stove, which we had found so useful ever since crossing the Missouri. It being light, we had always carried it lashed on the hind end of the wagon. Some careless person, in a hurry, drove his team up too close behind, and the pole of his wagon ran into the stove, smashing and ruining it. After that, we had to cook in the open air. We adopted a plan which was very fashionable on the plains. We would excavate a narrow trench in the ground, a foot deep and three feet long, in which we built the fire. The cooking vessels were set over this, and upon trial we found it a very good substitute for a stove.

We started at twelve o'clock to-day, traveled fifteen miles, and went into camp at five o'clock. The road was among and over the spurs of the Black Hills, and very rough. I rode horseback the most of the day. Many wagons are being abandoned. Every day we pass good wagons that have been left for anyone that might want them.

The Black Hills are so named from the fact that they are covered with pine, hemlock, spruce, cedar, and other evergreen trees, which give them, at a distance, a dark and gloomy appearance.

Tuesday, June 11. Our road keeps on westward up the valley of the North Fork -the river on our right, the Black Hills on our left, bordering the valley. They appear to be about seven or eight miles distant. Among them we can see Laramie Peak, twenty-five miles to the south. It is six thousand five hundred feet high.

In six miles we came to Poplar Creek, which is well timbered with poplars. The bottom is rich and produces good grass, but it is now nearly all eaten off. Seventeen miles further we came to Horseshoe Creek, which runs from the Black Hills to the river. This is a fine stream, having groves of poplars along its banks. I t is next to the largest creek between Fort Laramie and the crossing of the North Fork. Seven miles beyond here we came again to the bank of the Platte, where we found the feed to be very scarce. This region is said to produce clouds of grasshoppers in dry seasons.

Wednesday, June 12. The road sometimes follows near the river, then goes over the bluffs, then across deep sand. The hills and bottoms are mostly covered with sage-brush. It grows in dense, tangled thickets, and to break a road through it is hard work for the heaviest and strongest teams. It is about four feet high, with stems two inches thick at the ground, and often matted close together. It is of a dull gray color and gives the country a gloomy appearance. Very little grass grows among it. And yet it is said the soil is rich, and would produce well if cleared and cultivated.

Thursday, June 13. To-day we passed near where an old fort was built by some hunters or trappers, to protect themselves from Indians, who were very troublesome some years ago. The remains of the fort have nearly disappeared. We are coming into the range of the Arapahoes, who are reputed to be fighting Indians, but we have not seen any of them. They are supposed to be on the trail of the buffaloes, that have been frightened away by the crowds of emigration. The buffaloes are the chief means of subsistence of the Indian tribes over hundreds of thousands of square miles of this region.

To-morrow we expect to reach Deer Creek, and hope to find plenty of feed for our horses, who have a hard time of it over the rough and sandy roads, with only a scanty supply of food.

Friday, June 14. In six miles we came to Wood Creek. The grass, abundant in the spring, was now mostly eaten off. A fine growth of poplars lined the banks of the stream, and we were told that when feed is scarce the Indians chop down the young saplings and feed their horses on the leaves and tender branches.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon when we reached Deer Creek, thirteen miles beyond Wood Creek. This is the largest of the many streams running into the Platte, above the Laramie Fork. Along the bottom is considerable timber. With Robert's assistance, I did the washing this afternoon. During the night a heavy storm of wind came up, but passed over without doing any serious damage.

Saturday, June 15. This morning we started at eight o'clock. Our friends, the Carson boys from Cincinnati, came up with us here. We made a long drive to-day of twenty-six miles and camped within three miles of the crossing of the North Platte. For several days past we have been traveling among extensive thickets of sage-brush, or artemisia. It has the odor of turpentine mixed with camphor, which fills the air.

Sunday, June 16. We remained in camp at this place all day. A great many emigrants are gathered here and above, preparatory to crossing the river. The water is too deep to ford and the ferry charges are very high. Some are making ferry-boats of their wagon bodies taken off the wheels, and launched in the water, with long ropes to haul them back and forth across the river. In some cases, empty casks are tied to the four corners of the wagon body, to keep it from sinking. This plan is very dangerous in the swift current, and we hear of many persons who have lost their lives in these attempts.

Monday, June 17. A great crowd was waiting to cross the ferry. But by starting early, we were not delayed, and got over by six o'clock. This ferry was established by Kit Carson, the famous hunter and trapper, one of Fremont's guides. There were several ferryboats. The water was deep and swift. The boats were attached to strong ropes stretched across the river, and were driven quickly from shore to shore by the strong current. We paid $5.00 each for our two wagons, and $1.00 each for our seven horses.

The Platte River at this place comes out of the mountains from the southward, making a sharp bend at the above. Our road here leaves the Platte, which we have followed for four hundred and fifty miles, and strikes across to the Sweetwater, fifty miles further west. The space between the rivers is mostly a desert, covered with sage-brush, and producing but little grass. There are pools of alkali water and beds of dried-up ponds, crusted with soda or salt, several inches thick. The wheels and horses' hoofs break through the crust as if it were ice.

We started early to cross this long, bad stretch. On our left were some high, red cliffs called the “Red Bluffs.” After traveling twenty-two miles without water, we stopped all night by the only good spring. This is called Willow Springs; it lies in a deep, narrow gully, where the water is dipped by the cupful to fill the kegs and water vessels. At dark, while I was cooking supper, a heavy storm of wind and snow came up. There was no shelter, and we ate our supper while it was snowing and blowing. During the night, the men took turns guarding the horses in the snow, Mr. Frink being with them part of the time.

Tuesday, June 18. This was a bright June morning. We snowballed each other till ten o'clock, when the sun got too warm for the snow to remain. We traveled twenty-two miles, and came to the Sweetwater River, up which our road follows for one hundred and thirty miles, to the South Pass.

Wednesday, June 19. We traveled ten miles and came to “Independence Rock,” a famous landmark in the Sweetwater Valley. The road runs close to it. It received its name from a party of emigrants on their way to Oregon, several years ago, who celebrated the anniversary of the Declaration of Independence at this point, on the Fourth of July. This singular rock is a granite boulder, about nineteen hundred feet long, two hundred feet wide, and one hundred and twenty feet high, standing on a level plain, entirely detached from the mountains near by. The sides and front, to the height of six or eight feet, contain hundreds of names painted with black paint made of gunpowder and bacon grease.

Thursday, June 20. Five miles above “Independence Rock” we came to the “Devil's Gate,” where the river breaks through a spur of the mountains. The gap is nine hundred feet long, four hundred feet high, and one hundred and five feet wide. The road passes through another break a few hundred yards to the left. This opens into another beautiful valley about five miles wide, hemmed in by mountains that rise abruptly from the plain to a height of fifteen hundred or two thousand feet. There are scattering lines of pine timber on the tops, among which we could see patches of snow.

The valley is nearly level, and mostly covered with sage-brush. On the south side of some sand hillocks there are clums of sage six feet high, with stems six inches in diameter. Along the river are. narrow borders of good grass. The elevation of this valley is six thousand forty feet.

We only traveled fifteen miles to-day. Our Cincinnati friends, the Carsons, who have been with us for some days, left us this morning and drove ahead, being in a hurry to get to the end of the journey. We had the novelty of camping alone for the first time.

Friday, June 21. Our fellow-passenger, Mr. Avery, also left us this morning, concluding he could walk to California sooner than we could get there, at the rate we were traveling. We gave him all the provisions he could carry, and he started, with blankets, clothing, and provisions strapped on his back, to walk fifteen hundred miles to California.

Six miles from our camp we came to the cañon of the Sweetwater, and crossed the river by the difficult fords three times in less than a mile. Eight miles beyond the cañon we encamped on the Sweetwater by ourselves again.

Saturday, June 22. This morning we crossed ford number four of the Sweetwater, and then crossed a desert of sixteen miles without water. About midway was an extensive marsh, said to be underlaid with ice, but to what depth was not known. It is supposed that the marsh is frozen to great depth in winter, and that only a thin surface is thawed in summer.

During the forenoon we ascended a long, sloping hill, at the top of which, looking across a wide stretch of rough country covered with sage-brush, we got our first sight of the Wind River range of the Rocky Mountains. They were covered with snow, and appeared to be about fifty miles distant. We now realize that we are getting near the South Pass, which lies at the left of the snowy chain, where the mountains are broken away.

A few miles further we came to Sweetwater ford number five. The great number of fords on this stream are made necessary by the crooked course of the river, and the rough nature of the country. At this place we fell in with a company from Independence, Missouri, among whom were several emigrants from Kentucky and Indiana. A young Kentuckian, Mr. Thomas Wand, had ridden on ahead that day, and found a good camping place. He invited us to join them and to place our horses and mules with theirs on the pasture, which offer we readily accepted. One of the party, Mr. Johnson, proved to be from our own county.

Sunday, June 23. To-day we traveled twenty-three miles, crossing Sweetwater three times. We then left the river and went around the mountains. After crossing a small rivulet, we came to the Strawberry branch, and a few miles beyond reached what was known as the Quaking Asp branch of the Sweetwater, where we encamped for the night. The days are warm and pleasant, but after sunset the air cools rapidly, and heavy frosts whiten the ground in the morning.

Monday, June 24. This was a day long to be remembered. At five o'clock we drove out of camp, and, in two miles, crossed the east branch of the Sweetwater. Five miles further we came to the main and last branch of the stream, which we had no difficulty in crossing. On the mountains near the road there were deep banks of snow in the gulches.

We then traveled up a long, gradual slope, or plain, free of rocks, trees, or gullies, and came at half past eleven o'clock to the summit of the South Pass of the Rocky Mountains. We could hardly realize that we were crossing the great backbone of the North American Continent at an altitude of seven thousand four hundred and ninety feet. The ascent was so smooth and gentle, and the level ground at the summit so much like a prairie region, that it was not easy to tell when we had reached the exact line of the divide. But it is here that after every shower the little rivulets separate, some to flow into the Atlantic, the others into the Pacific.

It was a beautiful, warm, hazy day. Near the summit, on each side of the road, was an encampment, at one of which the American flag was flying, to mark the private post-office or express office established by Gen. James Estelle, for the accommodation of emigrants wishing to send letters to friends at home. The last post-office on our way was at St. Joseph, on the Missouri River. West of that stream were neither states, counties, cities, towns, villages, nor white men's habitations. The two mud forts we had passed were the only signs of civilization. The entire region between the Missouri River and the Rocky Mountains was then called by the official name of the Indian Territory; and as it was only a hunting-ground for the tribes we had passed, and for the Cheyennes, Blackfeet, Snakes, Arapahoes, Oglallahs, and Crows, its name was appropriate.

To see the old flag once more strongly reminded use of home. There was a hail-storm at noon, but that did not prevent the assembled company from having an off-hand celebration of our arrival at the summit. Music from a violin with tin-pan accompaniment, contributed to the general merriment of a grand frolic. In the afternoon we spent some time in writing letters to our friends, to be sent back by the express. On each letter we paid as express charges $1.00. The returning messengers delivered the letters to the postmaster at St. Joseph, and in due time they reached their destination, one thousand four hundred thirty-eight miles distant.

Then we set out to begin the long descent to the Pacific Ocean, bidding farewell to everything on the Atlantic side. We drove down a ravine for eight miles and encamped for the night at Pacific Springs. There being no grass here, the animals were taken into the hills two miles to the north, where the men guarded them all night. In the morning Mr. Frink found a field of bunch grass, not far from the camp, which he estimated would yield two tons per acre.

 

CHAPTER V.

Tuesday, June 25. We are now on the borders of the desert region. Between here and Green River extends a barren plain seventy miles wide, with only two streams and but scanty grass. We remained in camp until half past five o'clock in the afternoon. We then started across the first stretch of twenty-one miles, prepared to travel in the night to avoid the heat and lessen the thirst of our animals. The road was level and good. In ten miles we reached the dry bed of a small creek called “Dry Sandy.” The moon shone bright as day, and our party was in good spirits. The violinist played while others sang, and the long night passed off very pleasantly. We reached the first water, at Little Sandy, at two o'clock in the morning, pretty well fatigued. Here we halted, put our horses out to feed, and staid till morning.

Wednesday, June 26. All around is a plain thinly covered with sage-brush and grease-wood. A few miles to our right commence the foot-hills of the Wind River chain, and beyond them the Snowy Mountains rise abrupty to great height. They extend in a northwest direction farther than we can see. About fifty miles north is Fremont's Peak, thirteen thousand five hundred seventy feet high, the loftiest of the Rocky Mountains. Fremont planted the American flag on the summit in August, 1842, being probably the first human being to scale the mountain.

At fifteen minutes before ten o'clock in the morning, we started again, and after traveling six miles came to the Big Sandy, where we remained until half past six in the afternoon. We passed, on the way, the forks of the road, the left hand of which runs southwest to Salt Lake City, two hundred miles distant. We took the right-hand road, which is supposed to be shorter, and is known as Sublette's Cut-off.

Having now a forty-mile desert to cross without water, we filled our water-bottles, containing five gallons each. Starting a little before sunset, we traveled during the night twenty miles and stopped at four o'clock in the morning at a place where we found feed for the animals.

Thursday, June 27. From this camp Fremont's Peak can be distinctly seen, rising above all others. A few miles west of its base, in the valley, are the ruins of an old fort built by Captain Bonneville, of the U.S. Army, who explored this region in 1832.

There was no water on the desert, but our bottles supplied us with all that we needed. At six o'clock we started on, being anxious to get to Green River as soon as possible. After traveling twelve miles, we halted for our noon lunch, but as soon as this was over, we hastened forward. Fifteen miles brought us to the bluffs on the western edge of the desert, about four o'clock. From here we could see the bright waters of the river, several miles away. The bluffs were high, steep, and rocky, and we had to let the wagons down cautiously with ropes. The narrow gorges through which we passed down, were filled with clouds of blinding dust. At the foot of the bluffs the dust was from twelve to twenty inches deep. The river bottom was a plain of dust, crowded with wagons and animals, and thickly populated with emigrants waiting their regular turn to be ferried over. Each of the two ferries had a small flatboat rowed with oars.

Many of the animals had already been swum across; but the water was high, deep, swift, blue, and cold as ice, heading in the ice mountains on our right. The poor horses were reluctant to venture in. One of our animals utterly refused to swim. The ferryman was loath to take him on the boat but at last consented. By leading one or two of our horses behind the boat, the others were induced to follow. Mr. Rose crossed at the same time and took the animals seven miles further to pasture.

Mr. Frink had been taken sick during the day, and when he got to the foot of the bluffs, he was no longer able to walk, and with difficulty climbed into the wagon. As our wagons could not be taken over that night, we had to stop in that miserable desert of dust until late the next day, waiting our turn to cross. Our boy, Robert, remained with us; but, excepting him, Mr. Frink and I were entirely alone. The situation was a serious one. I was frightened at feeling we were almost helpless, a thousand miles from civilization.

Friday, June 28. This morning we heard that a gentleman by the name of Redwine, who had crossed the plains the year previous, was encamped near us with his family. At Mr. Frink's suggestion I called at their camp to learn, if possible, something of the road ahead of us; for our guide-books did not cover this part of the route. Mr. Redwine's reply was that he knew no more about the road than if he had never traveled it; that everything seemed new to him, but he thought it was yet a thousand miles to California. He could give us no information of any value.

Fortunately, Mr. Frink improved so much that he was enabled to cross the river with us in the afternoon.

Green River runs southward to the Colorado, which empties into the Gulf of California. The Spaniards, long ago, named it the “Rio Verde.” The Crow Indians call it “Prairie Chicken River,” from the quantities of grouse to be found on its upper branches.

Saturday, June 29. Mr. Rose was now taken sick with mountain fever. Mr. Frink was still confined to his bed. The outlook for the future became, for a time, quite dark and discouraging. But at this critical moment Mr. Thomas Wand, whom we had met on the Sweetwater, volunteered to take charge of our horses and to pasture and guard them for us. This was a great relief, for which I felt very thankful. But we had no way of showing our gratitude except by sending to him a present of a few delicacies from our stock on hand. This was the darkest period of our whole journey, and the assistance he gave us was highly appreciated.

Sunday, June 30. This is our third day in this dismal camp on the west bank of Green River. But Mr. Frink and Mr. Rose are both improving, and matters look more hopeful. There were frost and ice in camp last night, though to-day, at ten o'clock, the thermometer shows eighty degrees in the shade.

Monday, July 1. Mr. Wand and his company have left their wagons here and made pack-saddles, intending to pack their clothing, blankets, provisions, and cooking utensils on their animals, in order to travel faster. They stopped here two days for that purpose, and are now ready to start. Mr. Johnson, of Morgan County, Indiana, had been with Mr. Wand's party up to this time, but preferring not to pack through, made arrangements with Mr. Frink to travel with us. His horse, a good animal, was harnessed to our wagon and proved quite useful.

This morning some packers overtook us and brought the alarming tidings that cholera had appeared on the Platte River, behind us. This was the first that we had heard of its being on the road.

Mr. Frink and Mr. Rose are much improved. At twelve o'clock we started and traveled twelve miles. We hope in a few days to reach Bear River, where grass is said to be abundant.

Tuesday, June 2. Our sick people are still improving. We traveled to-day twenty miles over hills and valleys, and encamped alone by a mountain brook.

Wednesday, June 3. This morning Mr. Rose was not quite so well. In the afternoon he grew much worse, having a severe attack of mountain fever. At two o'clock a company from Illinois overtook us. I rode on horseback most of the day. We traveled thirteen miles and encamped on Ham's Fork, which runs southward into Green River. This is a beautiful stream of clear water, in a narrow, grassy valley.

Thursday, July 4. At six o'clock we started and after going a short distance down the stream, turned to the right and climbed up a long, narrow spur, to the top of a high mountain. We continued to ascend one after another, until we had reached a great height. This was the Bear River Range of the Rock Mountains. On the summit the road wound through a dense grove of tall young aspens and pines. We were delighted to be among trees once more, but they were soon passed by. This ridge is eight thousand two hundred thirty feet high, being seven hundred forty feet higher than the South Pass.

From this high point the road ran rapidly down, through a long, dusty, rocky ravine, or cañon, to a small valley within three miles of Bear River, where we encamped for the night, after a very hard day's drive. Mr. Rose was very sick all day. At one time his condition was alarming, but about sunset, to our great relief, there was a change for the better.

Notwithstanding our anxiety and fatigue, our dinner, in honor of the national anniversary, was the best we could provide. The last of our potatoes, which had long been saved for the occasion, made it a rare feast.

Since crossing the high ridge, we had descended, in less than half a day, one thousand eight hundred thirty feet, the elevation of this Fourth-of-July camp being six thousand four hundred feet.

Friday, July 5. We started at six o'clock and traveled northward, down the valley of Bear River -the mountains on our right, the river on our left. About three miles from the camp, we came to a rapid stream called Smith's Fork, issuing from the high mountains on our right, and divided into four separate creeks that ran across our road to the river. The second one being very narrow and deep, with perpendicular banks, had been bridged in a novel manner. A log had been split in the center and laid across with the flat sides up, at the proper distance to fit the wagon wheels; so that, by using a little care, the wagons could be safely crossed.

From here we drove on to the bank of Bear River, some distance to the left, and took our noon lunch. Then we traveled on to Thomas Fork, which is a fine stream, coming from the northeast, where we encamped for the night. Here we found good grass. Mr. Rose was some better during the day. The thermometer at noon showed eighty degrees.

Saturday, July 6. We started at six o'clock, forded Thomas Fork, and, turning to the west, came to a high, steep spur that extends to the river. Over this high spur we were compelled to climb. The distance is seven miles, and we were five hours in crossing. Part of the way I rode on horseback, the rest I walked. The descent was very long and steep. All the wheels of the wagon were tied fast, and it slid along the ground. At one place the men held it back with ropes and let it down slowly.

After coming to the valley, we drove to the river and rested some time for dinner. In the afternoon we went seven miles further, down the valley, and encamped at sundown on a beautiful stream lined with shrubs, running from the mountains to the river. Here we intend to stay over Sunday.

Sunday, July 7. We are remaining in camp to-day, resting from the severe labors and anxieties of the past week, as far as the pressing duties of camp life on the plains permit us to do so.

Monday, July 8. It rained considerably during the night. Mr. Frink was on guard until two o'clock, when he returned to camp bringing the startling news that, from some unknown cause, the horses had stampeded. We had no means of knowing whether it was the work of Indians or not, but it was useless to hunt for them in the darkness, Mr. Frink lay down and slept till daylight. Then a search was commenced, which resulted in the animals being soon found, not for from camp, very much to our relief.

When we arose, we found the range of mountains covered with new-fallen snow. This is a beautiful valley, and when under settlement and cultivation, will be a delightful region. Wild flax is growing in many places, as thickly as if sowed by the hand of man.

At half past ten we passed a village of Snake River Indians. Soon after, we crossed six beautiful mountain streams. Mr. Rose was much improved to-day! and able to drive the small wagon part of the time.

I visited a lady to-day at a train which had halted not far from ours -an unusual incident on this journey. We traveled ten miles and encamped on the bank of the river.

Tuesday, July 9. At half past five we set out, and in two hours and a half reached the far-famed Soda Springs and Steamboat Spring, at the big bend of Bear River. At this point the stream -along which for five days we have been traveling northward -suddenly bends to the left around a high, steep mountain, and, reversing its course, runs directly southward for one hundred twenty-five miles, to lose itself in the Great Salt Lake.

The Soda Springs are on the right of the road and boil up from the ground in many places, forming mounds of earth with a little cup or hollow on the top. Some of the mounds are several feet in height, the water bubbling over the top on all sides. By some they are called Beer Springs, from their peculiar taste.

About a mile further on is the Steamboat Spring, on the left of the road near the river. It derives its name from the ebullition of the water at regular intervals of about thirty seconds, which produces a sound similar to that of a steamboat. About three feet from the spring is a constant discharge of steam through a small crevice in the rock.

This region abounds in rare curiosities. I have never visited a place where there was so much of an interesting character to be seen. The whole country seems to have been curiously formed. I left this spot very reluctantly. Everything I saw was full of interest. But a party of Michigan men, who were at this time traveling with us, claimed that they could neither see nor feel an interest in anything this side of the gold of California.

There was an Indian village here of considerable size. The Indians seemed to be well-disposed. Our boy, Robert Parker, made a trade with them, exchanging his worn shoes for a pair of new moccasins.

The emigration was very thin on this part of the route, the heaviest portion of it having gone by way of the Salt Lake road, that turned off a few miles east of the Little Sandy.

Driving on a mile from the Steamboat Spring, we came to the forks of the road, the left-hand one, called Myer's Cut-off, going westerly over the plains and hills to Raft River, the right-hand one taking a northwest direction, and crossing the northern rim of the Great Salt Lake Basin, to Fort Hall, on the Snake River, or Lewis Fork of the Columbia.

We have now traveled sixteen hundred twentytwo miles from home. The elevation of this place is five thousand eight hundred forty feet, indicating that we have descended only one hundred sixty feet in our journey of seventy miles down the Bear River Valley.

 

CHAPTER VI.

Tuesday, July 9, Continued. When we came to the forks of the road, we decided to take the right-hand one, leading to Fort Hall, because of the advice and illustration given us by an old Indian at the Soda Springs. He raised up the bail of a bucket to signify a high mountain, and passing his hand over the top, said, “This is Myer's Cut-off.” Then, laying the bail down and passing his hand around it, said, “This is the Fort Hall road.” We were told afterwards that this was correct.

The whole plain, fifteen miles wide, west and north-west of the forks, seemed to have once been the mouth or interior of an immense volcanic crater. It was a level floor of hardened lava, seamed with chasms of great depth.

We soon came to a soda pool, on top of a mound five feet high. We drove by the side of it and I dipped a cupful without leaving my seat in the wagon. Its taste was that of ordinary soda water. I learned afterwards from those who had used it that it made very light biscuit. We had no chance to give it a trial in this way.

In the afternoon we traveled twelve miles, passing many curious objects and crossing one small stream. During the night it rained.

Wednesday, July 10. Five of our horses were missing this morning, but after a short search they were found and brought into camp. After breakfast, we traveled northward for ten miles, crossing to the west side of a stream of water, where we halted for dinner. While there, a party of Snake Indians came into the camp, begging flour, coffee, and bread, of each of which we gave them a little.

About half past twelve we started to ascend the mountain chain which separates the Great Salt Lake basin from the valley of the· Columbia. The road was very rough, but we had crossed the main ridge by four o'clock, and soon after came to a small spring branch flowing northward into Snake River, where we made our encampment for the night, in view of banks of snow from five to ten feet deep.

This is the road that was followed by Peter Lassen, one of the earliest pioneers of California, long before the gold was discovered. It is now the main road followed by emigrants to Oregon.

Thursday, July 11. The road to-day was very hilly and rough. At night we encamped within one mile of Fort Hall. Mosquitoes were as thick as flakes in a snow-storm. The poor horses whinnied all night, from their bites, and in the morning the blood was streaming down their sides. At our noon camp we found a thicket of wild currant bushes, from which we gathered currants enough to furnish pies for the next two or three days. They were a great luxury to people who had been without fruit of any kind for three months.

In the afternoon we came to a creek that appeared to be deep and bad to cross. Just as we were beginning to examine for a safe place to ford it, three Indians on horseback came toward us. They rode across the creek before us, apparently to show us the best way. We crossed without difficulty, and they afterwards accompanied us to where we encamped for the night. One of them, much older than the others, informed us that he had traveled as far east as St. Louis; and in order to make us understand, he imitated with his mouth the puffing of a steamboat. He rode onwards after we had reached camp; but the other two turned their horses loose, and stayed near us all night. They told us that this was the Indian's country.

Friday, July 12. We left our camp at half past five in the morning, and at seven o'clock reached a former trading-post of the Hudson's Bay Company, established many years ago, when the English people made claim to all this part of our territory. It was in charge of Captain Grant, a Canadian, who had been here for nine years, and had entertained Colonel Fremont and his party, in September, 1843, while on their way to the mouth of the Columbia River.

We stopped here for a short time, and were hospitably received by Captain Grant, who treated us in a very gentlemanly manner, and formally introduced us to his wife, an Indian woman, of middle age, quite good-looking, and dressed in true American syle.

Before we left, he very kindly presented us with a supply of fresh lettuce and onions, expressing regret that because of the lateness of the season, he had no other varieties to offer us. We thankfully accepted them as a very unusual luxury.

We did not visit the United States Government post, Fort Hall, as it was a mile off the road, though it was in full view on our right as we passed along.

We have now reached the most northerly point of our wearisome journey. The latitude of Fort Hall is forty-three degrees one minute and thirty seconds north, according to Colonel Fremont's calculation. This is three and a half degrees north of Martinsville. The altitude of Fort Hall is four thousand five hundred feet.

We are now to turn to the left at a right angle, and travel the rest of the way in a nearly southwest direction, until we reach Sutter's Fort, which is still seven hundred miles distant; and from all accounts, the worst part of the road is yet to be passed over.

During our halt at the fort, our company had gone on; so we set forward alone. In two miles we came to a stream, which, though deep, we crossed without much trouble. But three miles beyond, a considerable stream running to our right was found to be much deeper. Here, in crossing, we got our things wet, for the first time on the journey. We could not ford in the usual way, but had to draw the wagons across by ropes stretched to the other bank. The next slough was also deep, but we got over safe.

After traveling about ten miles further, we came to Snake River, which here runs in a southwest direction, and encamped for the night on the southeast bank.

Saturday, July 13. We started at five o'clock this morning, and soon came to the American Falls of Snake River. This stream, which is nine hundred feet wide, is inclosed between high walls of black, volcanic rock, and has a perpendicular fall of fifty feet. Beyond it is a wide plain of black lava, so broken and split with deep chasms that it can hardly be crossed by a man on foot. Fifty miles distant, northwest, the “Three Buttes” rise high and bold out of the lavaplain, and can be seen for a long distance. Our first view of them was from the high ridge south of Fort Hall.

We halted for dinner in sight of the falls, and were visited by a party of five Crow Indians, who brought some fine fish into camp, for which we traded. Soon after dinner, we came to a beautiful creek -a long succession of dashing falls. The rock over which it ran had something of the appearance of the soda formations near the Steamboat Spring.

We traveled all the afternoon down Snake River, and encamped at night on Beaver Creek, which comes from the south.

Sunday, July 14. If we could have had our own way, this would have been a day of rest in reality, as well as in name; but such it was not to be. Not only the customary duties of camp life, but the weekly laundry, had to be attended to, although the day was excessively warm, the mercury marking one hundred and twenty degrees inside our wagon. The dryness of the air, and the high altitude, made the heat more endurable than it would have been in a moist climate, at a low elevation.

Monday, July 15. We left Beaver Creek at six o'clock, still traveling down Snake River, and in eight miles came to Raft River, a small stream that flowed from mountains on our left. Here the roads fork again, the right-hand one turning off northwesterly towards Oregon, while we took the left-hand one, going southwesterly towards California, leaving Snake River, and traveling up Raft River. We crossed it three times during the day, and at dark drove into camp on a branch of this stream, not far from the junction of the Myer's Cut-off, which we had passed near the Steamboat Spring. We are now coming again into a hilly country.

Tuesday, July 16. It was half past five when we left apr camp. The company we were with drove too fast for us to-day, and when we halted at noon, we found ourselves alone. But Mr. Cole and his party came up with us just as we were starting after dinner, traveled with us during the afternoon, and when we stopped at a beautiful nook in the mountains for our night camp, they remained in our company until morning.

Wednesday, July 17. This morning we started early, at half past five o'clock, and nearly all day traveled over rough roads. During the forenoon we passed through a stone village composed of huge, isolated rocks of various and singular shapes, some resembling cottages, others steeples and domes. I t is called the “City of Rocks,” but I think the name “Pyramid City” more suitable. It is a sublime, strange, and wonderful scene -one of nature's most interesting works. The Salt Lake road, which turned off between Dry Sandy and Little Sandy, and which we passed on the twentysixth day of June, rejoins our road at this point.

The altitude of Pyramid City is five thousand nine hundred seventy-five feet, being the highest point between the top of the Bear River Range and where the emigrant road crosses the Sierra Nevada.

Eight miles from Pyramid City we recrossed, going southwest, the forty-second parallel of latitude, which we had crossed, going north, on. the eighth day of June, near Fort Laramie.

At noon we halted for lunch in company with Mr. Cole's party. But they were quite anxious to travel on and started out before us. During the afternoon the road was very rough -a continual succession of mountains. We only traveled seven miles. The Goose Creek Indians are said to be warlike and troublesome, but we have not found them so up to this time. Our horses, however, are closely guarded every night. We reached the little valley of Goose Creek this afternoon, and encamped near the bank of the stream about sunset, in company with some ox teams.

Thursday, July 18. We traveled up Goose Creek in a southwesterly direction all day. We fell in company with a train that had come by way of the Salt Lake road, and encamped with them at night. This was a cloudy day, with slight indications of rain.

Friday, July 19. We started at half past six in the morning, and continued to travel up Goose Creek. The road was very rough. The face of the country presents volcanic appearances. At the last crossing of Goose Creek we broke our small wagon, which detained us an hour and a half. It was fourteen miles from this place to the next water. We reached it at five o'clock, at the entrance to Thousand Spring Valley. The spring was a beautiful one, flowing out from beneath a large rock. Four miles beyond this rock we encamped for the night. Here we traded some gunpowder for an antelope ham, with some friendly Indians of the Snake tribe. To-day, like yesterday, has been cloudy, with some sprinkling of rain.

The Thousand Spring Valley, which we have just come into, takes its name from the great number of springs, both hot and cold, to be found in it. If all the tales we hear about it are true, it is an interesting place. At the farther end we expect to reach the head of the Humboldt River, which we have been told extends nearly to the California mountains.

When we encamped in the evening, there being no grass near, the horses were taken some distance to the mountains, where good feed had been found.

Saturday, July 20. It was seven o'clock when we started this morning. We traveled down the Thousand Spring Valley for twenty miles. A party of Indians encamped with us at noon, but gave no signs of being unfriendly. The ox teams that stayed with us last night, came up and camped with us again. It is seldom that we are without company on this part of the journey.

Sunday, July 21. This morning we started at eight o'clock, and soon came to springs that were boiling hot. Only five feet from them was another as cold as ice. Here were men engaged in washing their clothing. Their position was such that, after washing a garment in the boiling springs, they could take it by the waistband and fling it across into the cold spring, and vice versa, with perfect ease. There were said to be creeks of running water too hot to bathe in. but we did not have leisure to visit them.

We continued to travel down the valley, in a southwest direction, until three o'clock, when we stopped for the night -this time by ourselves -near the western end of the valley.

Monday, July 22. We started over a ridge, or bluff, at half past six o'clock, still traveling in a southwesterly direction. During the day we reached cañon Creek, one of the small tributaries of the Humboldt, and encamped on the bottom, where we found abundant grass.

Tuesday, July 23. This day brought us to the farfamed Humboldt River. We had left camp at five o'clock, and after traveling five hours, came to the stream which many said reached nearly to California. Others said that it ran into the ground at the edge of a great desert which the emigrants had to cross; and after that, they would have to cross the highest mountains on the route, covered with snow and ice. Rumors of all kinds passed up and down the line, for very few knew anything about the country ahead of us.

Near this place we met a party of men with packmules returning to the Atlantic states. It was a rare thing to see anyone going that way. The emigrants were anxious for information. They asked hundreds of questions of the packers. Had they stopped to answer, they would have been kept all summer. They kept their mules going at a rapid gait, and shouted back their answers as long as they could be heard.

At noon we stopped for lunch on the bank of the river, but had to swim the horses across to find pasturage. In the afternoon we traveled ten miles and encamped again on the river, in company with a Missouri train.

We have now traveled eighteen hundred thirty-five miles. The altitude here is five thousand six hundred twenty-eight feet.

 

CHAPTER VII.

Wednesday, July 24. At six o'clock we started and crossed over some bluffs. We stopped for dinner near Dr. Miller's company. The river passed through a cañon near by. This upper portion of the Humboldt Valley produced fine grass in great quantity. The great herds of the emigration have already consumed a large portion of it. The water is bright and clear, cool and refreshing. At night we encamped with a party from Cincinnati, some of them being of McFarland's company.

Thursday, July 25. This morning we were on the road by six o'clock, and soon fell in company with Mrs. Foshee. We saw our friend Miss Cole to-day. Near the crossing of the Humboldt we stopped for the night. The river was too high and we could not cross. In the early part of the day we had taken what is called the “Greenhorn Cut-off,” which required fifteen miles' travel to gain six miles on our journey. What is called a “cut-off” is a shorter road across a bend. A “greenhorn cut-off” is a road which a stranger or new traveler takes believing it to be shorter, but which turns out to be longer than the regular road. There were many such on the plains.

Mr. Cole's party caught up with us as we were all starting out of camp at half past four the next morning.

Friday, July 26. After traveling about five miles this morning, we came to the mountains. We had a long drive over them. I walked seven miles during the morning. Mr. Clarke's company and Mr. Cole's was fifteen miles, ali the way without water.

Saturday, July 27. Traveled down the river four miles, then came to the mountains, the roughest road we have gone over thus far -a seventeen-mile stretch without water.

Mrs. Foshee rode with us to-day until noon, and took dinner with us, their team not coming up. Our boy Robert took up a horse near the road, it having the appearance of being lost, and by so doing got separated from us. During the afternoon we became quite anxious about him, but reconciled ourselves with the thought that we should find him at the river. But when we reached the river, Robert was not there, and it was getting late. Everyone, being tired, wished to get to where we could camp. I was almost frantic for fear the Indians had caught him, and to increase my agony, a company of packers came along, just starting out to travel all night, who informed us that there were some five hundred Indians encamped very near us. I suffered the agony almost of death in a few minutes. I besought them to turn back and help us look for our lost boy, but they had not time, and were, besides, on short rations. But Aaron Rose had unhitched the best horse, and started back over the hills. Never can I forget those minutes. The thought of leaving the boy, never to hear of him again ! But just at dark, Aaron came in sight, having the lost boy with him. My joy turned into tears. It was some time after dark before we got into our camp for the night.

Sunday, July 28. We started at seven o'clock, traveled fourteen miles, and stopped for the day. After that we were engaged with our usual Sunday duties, from which there was no escape.

Monday, July 29. We are traveling in a southwest direction. The river makes a great bend to the northwest. Sometimes our road runs near it, but often at a distance across the bends.

Tuesday, July 30. To-day we traveled twenty-five miles. This is a long day's drive, as our animals seldom go out of a walk. If they were urged faster, they would soon fall exhausted. This is the condition of all the stock on the road.

Wednesday, July 31. We started at six o'clock, and soon came up with Mr. Clarke's company. The valley is from ten to twenty miles wide here, much of it rough and covered with sage-brush. The river bottoms are narrow, but we are told they widen towards the “sink.” A few cottonwoods and low willows grow along the stream. There is no other timber.

Thursday, August 1. We crossed the slough as soon as we started. Then we had a very bad hill to climb, though it was short. William Johnson went hunting. We came to the river, but could not cross it. Took to the bluffs. Found the road good with the exception of two very rough places. Started again at three o'clock, but did not proceed far before our small wagon broke down, and we had to stop. Mr. Cole's party stopped with us, and we rigged a cart out of the wagon. Mr. Clarke's wagon being ahead, they did not hear of our accident. We encamped in the neighborhood of several boiling springs.

Friday, August 2. We were ready to start at six o'clock. We are now traveling on the south side of the Humboldt River, with only Mr. Cole's party in company. We encamped on a salt plain not far from the river. We found a well near by, but it proved to be salty.

The Arkansas train camped near us. We traded pickles and acid with them for tea and sugar.

Saturday, August 3. After a twenty-five-mile drive, we encamped at evening on the bank of the river. Feed is becoming scarcer than ever. Whenever we come to grass that can be mowed, Mr. Frink has the men cut a good supply of it with the scythe, and it is then hauled in the wagon for future use. In this hot, dry air, it cures very quickly, adding but little weight to the load.

Away from the river, the soil is hard and dry, void of any vegetation except sage-brush, which is worthless for any purpose but fuel. When it is dry, it makes a hot fire, from the oil it contains, but burns out very soon. Much of the level land of this valley is barren, from the salt and alkali in it.

Sunday, August 4. This day we remained in camp to recuperate ourselves and animals. Constant travel over rough roads, through suffocating dust, makes a rest welcome whenever we can take it. Mr. Cole, having a broken wagon to mend, must repair it to-day or lose to-morrow.

Monday, August 5. We started at six o'clock, following a rough, hard road over bluffs. The way along the river is often shut off by the cliffs, forcing us over low, rocky spurs. The heat is sometimes oppressive. The dust is intolerable. Many wear silk handkerchiefs over their faces; others wear goggles. It is a strangelooking army.

Tuesday, August 6. We found the grass at this place very good, but we could not remain longer. Just as we were starting out, our friends the Carson boys and their party drove up. Their animals had been suffering from want of feed, and were losing strength every day. Their provisions were also running short, and it was yet three hundred and fifty miles to Sutter's Fort, over bad roads. The long, hard journey was not the pleasure trip they had looked for. Some of the company were contrary, and all of them had become, like hundreds of others, much disheartened at the discouraging prospect ahead of them. But we endeavored to put the matter in the best light we could, and rendered them such little assistance as was in our power. We were able, among other things, to contribute from our reduced stock a supply of those two great luxuries on the plains, acid and sugar, which they fully appreciated. And, having found here plenty of good feed for their stock, and seeing that there was no immediate danger of starvation, the spirits of the party were in great degree restored. So we drove off and left them in camp, promising to let them know of our whereabouts in case we got through first.

It was a hard road we traveled to-day, fifteen miles without water. We broke a new road across a dried-up lake, having an incrustation like ice. It was either borax or soda or salt, probably some of each. Then we came to the river and went into our night camp.

Wednesday, August 7. Starting at seven o'clock, we drove over a spur of the rocky hills, a difficult road. We finally came to the south bank of the river, which here had a westerly course. There was neither bridge nor ferry, and the water was too deep to ford. Some people had made a boat of a large wagon bed, which they had turned bottom upward in the river, with an empty keg lashed under each corner to keep it afloat. A long rope was tied to each end and men on opposite banks pulled it back and forth. When they had finished their crossing, they permitted us to use the boat. We piled our provisions, bedding, cooking utensils, hay, and all other stuff, upon it, and after many trips got everything safely over. When I crossed, I sat with my feet in the wash-tub to keep them dry. The horses swam over, and the empty wagons were pulled through the water by means of long ropes attached to the tongues.

A few days before this Mr. Johnson swam over the river, carrying with him the end of a long rope. At the other end was tied a mowing scythe, which he dragged across after landing. Having cut all the grass we needed, he tied it in bundles, which were hauled over to our side. The scythe was returned in the same way, and then Mr. Johnson swam safely back.

After getting everything landed on the north side, we harnessed up, loaded our wagons again, and traveled four or five miles down the river in search of grass. Finding none, we fed our animals from the hay that had been hauled in the wagon.

Thursday, August 8. Our horses had nothing to eat this morning. A boat was rigged, by means of which Mr. Johnson crossed the river and cut hay, which was ferried over the river to feed with. By two o'clock we were ready to start again. Some Hungarians passed us to-day who had eaten nothing for two days. I encouraged them all I could, but the situation looked gloomy to everyone of us. There was nothing but sand-hills as far as we could see, without a spear of herbage. We traveled on again for ten miles and about sundown came to the river, where we met the Carson boys crossing from the south side to the north side of the stream. We did not stop but traveled along ten miles further, and at ten o'clock at night came to the first water. Around us was a terrible scene; the earth was strewn with dead horses and cattle.

Those whose duty it was to stand guard last night, went to sleep through excessive fatigue, and the horses got to the wagon containing our provisions, and ate all the beans and dried fruit. The animals had had nothing to eat except a short allowance of the hay we had hauled with us.

Friday, August 9. We started at six o'clock and traveled eight miles, to a place where we watered for the last time, there being no water after that for twelve miles. At the end of that distance, we came to a spring in a deep ravine, where we found many of our former traveling companions. It was a pleasant meeting in that desert place. We exchanged congratulations and experiences, each narrating the hardships they had met. Then, for a time, we traveled on together.

One of the Carson's mules gave out to-day. Mr. Frink let them have one of our horses in its place. During the day we passed many dead animals. Just as the sun was going down, we came to a wide tract of marsh land covered with coarse swamp grass, and called the “big meadows” or “Humboldt meadows.” Finding no good place for our animals, Mr. Frink bought some hay tied up in small bundles, for which he paid twenty cents each.

Saturday, August 10. The horses were taken across a slough for grass. Here we found many more of our old road acquaintances, whom we were glad to meet. Hearing of better grass ahead, we went on for four or five miles. All the way, both sides of the road were thickly settled with campers. They are resting and feeding their stock, lightening their wagons, cutting grass and making hay, and preparing the best they can for crossing the Humboldt Desert -the worst on all the route -now only two or three days' travel ahead.

We encamped near the edge of the marsh, between Bennett's and Hall's passenger trains. It was Mr. Frink's plan to remain here until enough of the Coarse grass had been cut and cured into hay to feed our horses across the desert. On the other side, in Carson Valley, we hope to find good grass again.

The reports which came from the desert of the loss of horses, mules, and oxen were very distressing and caused much uneasiness. We did not know but that our own animals might meet the same fate.

The river is the only water to be had, as there are no brooks, springs, or wells in the valley except at the head, where we first came to it. But we had not traveled fifty miles down the stream before we found the water gradually becoming brackish and discolored from the salt and alkali in the soil. The farther we traveled the worse it became. During the last eight or ten days it seems to have been mixed up with everything nauseous, but we do not expect anything better until we get to the Carson River, about seventy-five miles distant, on the other side of the Great Desert.

Sunday, August 11. Mr. Clarke's company came up and camped beside us. Also part of the Mount Morris company, whom we met on Bear River -William Bryant, Mr. Sharp, the two Coffman brothers, and our lady friend, Mrs. Foshee. The Indians had stolen all their horses except two nice ponies. The whole party were now in sad plight, on short rations, with only two horses, and a lady in the company, whom the young men felt it to be their bounden duty to see safely in California. The young men were willing to walk and carry their own provisions if they could find some one who would take Mrs. Foshee to Sacramento, and accept the two horses for pay. For herself, she had no fear, for she felt sure that God would provide her some way to get there safely, for he had already, in a miraculous manner, saved their company from starvation.

We had met them several days previously, near the Humboldt River, and I had gone to their camp, where I found them entirely out of provisions. They had just eaten the last food they had. But Mrs. Foshee was not dismayed, and was pleading with the young men not to despair, to still put their trust in God, for she was sure they would be provided for. And so it actually turned out. They had not traveled far that afternoon when one of the young men came across a young cow tied to some willow bushes, with a card fastened to her horns, on which was written the statement that nothing was the matter with the cow, that she was only footsore and not able to travel fast, and that anyone in want of provisions would be at liberty to kill her for food. This being their desperate case, they stopped, killed the animal, cut the meat into small strips to dry, and traveled on with lightened hearts.

The next day they found a sack of flour with a card attached, on which was written permission to anyone in need of food to appropriate it to his own use. As this applied to their own party, they gladly took it with them. Mrs. Foshee's prediction was fulfilled to the letter.

And now here they were at our camp to-day, the young men offering their two horses to anyone who would furnish to Mrs. Foshee a safe passage to California.

While we were all talking the matter over, there came into camp the Rev. Mr. Morrow, a Methodist clergyman, to give us notice that he would preach in a tent near by at two o'clock. We had had some previous acquaintance with him, and I suggested to him that here was an opportunity to put in practise the teachings of Jesus Christ, by giving up to Mrs. Foshee his comfortable seat in the passenger carriage he was traveling in. A train to carry passengers across the plains had been fitted out in St. Louis by McPike and Strother, and Mr. Morrow was with them. The situation was fully explained to him. The four young men, all that remained of the Mount Morris company, with whom Mrs. Foshee had set out from home, now offered to the minister to give him their only two remaining horses, by which he could reach California sooner than by the slow passenger train, if he would give his seat in the carriage to Mrs. Foshee. He could take with him either his own supply of provisions, or her share of the dried beef and flour which the young men had found, and she would accept in return what provision he had on hand.

After discussing and considering the matter a little further, Mr. Morrow consented. The exchange was made. And the next morning we all said good-by to Mrs. Foshee, as she sat in her carriage, smiling and happy, ready to continue her journey. At the same time the Rev. Mr. Morrow, riding one of the two horses and leading the other, packed with his clothing, blanket, and provisions, passed out of sight and we saw him no more.

And so the four young men who had given up their ponies, were left to travel the rest of the journey on foot, each with his bundle of flour and dried meat, which had so fortunately been found a few days previously. They were happy to be relieved of their responsibility for the safety and welfare of Mrs. Foshee. They had to leave behind them, when they started out, a complete outfit of new clothing, blankets, and comforts, with all the little articles which their mothers, sisters, and sweethearts had, with so much care, fitted up for them, as, without their horses, they could carry but little save the bare necessities of life. Mr. Bryant, however, carried his pick, with which to dig gold when he got to California.

Monday, August 12. It being Mr. Frink's intention to make enough hay here to last us across the desert, the men have been at work most of the day mowing grass in the wet meadow and spreading it out on the hot sand to dry.

Many people are passing to-day begging for food. The Carson company came up, but only stopped a short time, being anxious to push forward. Mrs. Cook, a traveling acquaintance, reached here in the afternoon. Among the crowds on foot, a negro woman came tramping along through the heat and dust, carrying a cast-iron bake oven on her head, with her provisions and blanket piled on top -all she possessed in the world -bravely pushing on for California.

Tuesday, August 13. The grass that was cut the day before cured rapidly in the hot sun and dry air. In the afternoon it was tied up in small bundles and piled on the wagon. There was a large load of it. We spent the day in making everything ready for the start toward the desert the next morning. The rumors that came back from there were very distressing -animals dying without number, and people suffering from prolonged thirst.

Wednesday, August 14. This was a pleasant morning, and we got an early start. We had gone but a few miles when we came to a man who was just unhitching his two-horse wagon to abandon it, his horses being unable to haul it any further. Mr. Frink gave him $5.00 for it, and left our cart by the roadside, for anyone who might want it. We could carry more hay in the wagon, and it was large enough for some of the men to sleep in at night. It lasted us all the way through to Sacramento, where Mr. Frink was offered $40.00 for it and sold it.

After this the road turned nearly south, and brought us opposite to the end or point of the mountains on our left, on the east side of the river. A broad, sandy desert opened and extended beyond them to the east and also to the south, farther than we could see. On the west, forty miles away, we could distinguish the long-looked-for California mountains, the Sierra Nevada, lying in a northwest and southeast direction. They were dark with heavy pine forests. On the plain was neither tree, shrub, nor blade of grass.

In a few miles we came to where the river, along which we have been traveling for the last three weeks, spreads out on the level plain, and forms a broad, shallow lake. This lake is called the “sink of the Humboldt.” One-half of it sinks into the sand, the other half rises into the sky. This is the end of the most miserable river on the face of the earth. The water of the lake, as well as that of the river for the last one hundred miles above, is strong with salt and alkali, and has the color and taste of dirty soap-suds. It is unfit for the use of either animals or human beings; but thousands of both have had to drink it to save life.

We stopped near the margin of the sink, fed our horses from the grass in the wagon, and took dinner. The elevation here is three thousand nine hundred twenty-nine feet, which is two thousand forty-six feet lower than “Pyramid City,” and is the lowest altitude we have reached since leaving “Chimney Rock,” one thousand two hundred fifty miles distant, on Platte River. The total distance we have traveled thus far is two thousand one hundred fifty-eight miles.

After lunch we set forward again, and about one o'clock passed a party of emigrants who were burying a man in the sand-hills, a most desolate place.

Intending to travel in the night as much as we could, we drove on until eleven o'clock. Here we came to the last slough, or bayou, that we had to cross, and remained for the night. The water was horrible. The next morning we were to launch out into the dreadful desert, forty miles wide, with neither grass nor water on the way, and our horses ready to drop from fatigue and hunger.

 

CHAPTER VIII.

 

Thursday, August 15. We made our final preparations and crossed the muddy slough by ten o'clock in the morning, expecting soon to enter the confines of the desert. I walked most of the way for the next six miles, to relieve the animals as much as possible. About one o'clock P.M. we stopped to rest and to feed the horses. At three o'clock we started again. A few miles further we came to the last of the sloughs or bayous, that connect the river with the sink. Here we filled our five-gallon water bottles, and other vessels, it being our last opportunity of doing so. The men waded into the middle of the slough to fill them, hoping the water there might be better than near the bank. We then drove onward until dark,when we stopped for a short time to refresh ourselves and our weary horses. As night came on, the air grew cool and invigorating, which was an advantage. Our next drive continued until midnight, when we halted again, fed and watered our animals, and took lunch. Then we slept until three o'clock in the morning.

Friday, August 16. It was long before sunrise when we left camp. Our plan was to travel by easy stages, stopping often to feed and rest our horses. The early morning was cool and pleasant. At six o'clock we halted and rested four hours.

We set forward again at ten o'clock and soon began to realize what might be before us. For many weeks we had been accustomed to see property abandoned and animals dead or dying. But those scenes were here doubled and trebled. Horses, mules, and oxen, suffering from heat, thirst, and starvation, staggered along until they fell and died on every rod of the way. Both sides of the road for miles were lined with dead animals and abandoned wagons. Around them were strewed yokes, chains, harness, guns, tools, bedding, clothing, cooking-utensils, and many other articles, in utter confusion. The owners had left everything, except what provisions they could carryon their backs, and hurried on to save themselves.

In many cases the animals were saved by unhitching them and driving them on to the river. After resting, they were taken back to the wagons, which in this way were brought out.

But no one stopped to gaze or to help. The living procession marched steadily onward, giving little heed to the destruction going on, in their own anxiety to reach a place of safety. In fact, the situation was so desperate that, in most cases, no one could help another. Each had all he could do to save himself and his animals.

As we advanced, the scenes became more dreadful. The heat of the day increased, and the road became heavy with deep sand. The dead animals seemed to become at every step of the way more numerous. They lay so thick on the ground that the carcasses, if placed together, would have reached across many miles of that desert. The stench arising was continuous and terrible.

The fault lay, in many cases, with the emigrants themselves. They acted injudiciously. Their fears caused them to drive too fast, in order to get over quickly. Their animals were too weak to be urged in this way. If the people generally had cut grass and made hay at the “big meadows” above the “sink,” as Mr. Frink did, and hauled it with them into the desert, and brought a few gallons of water for each animal, traveling slowly and resting often, much of the stock and property that was lost could have been saved, and much distress and suffering avoided.

Towards noon we came to a carriage by the side of the road in which sat our friend Mrs. Foshee. The horses having become exhausted, had been unharnessed and led forward to the river. She was awaiting their return with her usual composure.

A few miles beyond we met a wagon drawn by strong, fresh horses, loaded with barrels of pure, sweet water for sale. It had been hauled from a newly discovered spring, four or five miles southeast of the road. Mr. Frink bought a gallon of it, for which he paid $1.00. After the nauseous stuff of the Humboldt “sink,” this spring water was more than an ordinary luxury.

Traveling slowly onward, we came to a halt at one o'clock and rested several hours, sending Mr. Rose, during the meantime, to water the horses at the spring. When he returned, which was about four o'clock, we resumed our journey. Before night we came to the wagons of the Carson boys, standing idly by the road. They told us that they had taken their mules to the spring, and having given them water, were returning to the wagons. On the way back the mules, unwilling to leave the water, became stubborn, refused to travel, pulled away from the men, ran off into the desert, and never were seen again. Part of their company, when we came up, had already gone on to the Carson River to buy more animals to bring the wagons out.

It was eleven o'clock at night when we reached the river. We had been thirty-seven hours on that frightful desert. But we came through all well and without loss of animals or property. We were completely tired out, but having eaten nothing since four o'clock, we had to get supper before going to bed.

Saturday, August 17. The Carson River comes close to the south edge of the desert. This stream was named after the famous hunter and explorer, Kit Carson, the guide of Fremont. Its source is one hundred and seventy miles southwest, among the snows and granite of the Sierra Nevada. Its water was clear, cool, and pure, free from salt or alkali, as different from the Humboldt soap-suds is from night.

We were informed that the Carson Valley was a beautiful region, abounding in rich pastures, and that our road would follow up the valley for one hundred miles or more, gradually approaching the California Mountains on our right to where the river issued from Carson cañon. There it would enter the cañon to cross the mountains to Sutter's Fort, only one hundred miles further. Our hopes revived on hearing we were so near the end of our journey. We knew but little of what was ahead of us.

By the side of the river, where we came to it, was a collection of dirty tents and cloth shanties called “Ragtown.” California traders had brought supplies here to sell to the emigrants. Beef was sold at twenty-five cents per pound, bacon $1.00, and flour $2.00 per pound. We bought some beefsteak for breakfast, our first fresh meat since trading with the Goose Creek Indians for antelope ham, on the 19th of July.

It was at this point that we reached, in our southward journeying, the latitude of our old home in Indiana, thirty-nine degrees and thirty minutes north. The altitude is the same as that of the “sink.” But from here the road begins to ascend, at first with gentle inclination, but afterwards more rapidly till we reached the highest point on our journey, the crest of the Snow Mountains.

After breakfast we traveled six miles up the Carson River in search of feed for the animals. We were compelled to camp where the grass was very poor, but, fortunately, enough of the hay remained that had been cut at the Humboldt meadows, to feed the horses that night.

Sunday, August 18. We remained in camp near the river all day, resting after the severe toil of crossing the desert. The valley is about twenty miles wide. On the east side is a low range of hills. The California Mountains, on the west, are the grandest.we have seen. The sides are covered with pine forests. Above them are the white snow beds. We expect to strike the foot of the mountains soon and follow it along to the Carson Cañon, the gateway through which the road runs to cross the Sierras.

We are disappointed not to find the rich pastures that we heard about. Thousands of animals have fed them off. Mr. Frink has had the men cut grass wherever we can find it, to take with us. But for this, our stock would often fare badly. Much of the slope between the mountains and the river is covered with sage-brush.

Monday, August 19. We started on our journey very much disheartened, our horses having had but little to eat and being in sad condition. Myself and Robert picked every spear of grass growing between the clumps of bushes, and tied it up in small bunches, to try to keep up the strength and courage of the animals. After traveling three miles we stopped to water the horses, the road here leaving the river, which ran through an impassable cañon. When we had traveled four or five miles beyond the cañon, we became convinced that there must be grass on the river, as we had not seen any wagon tracks leading that way. So Mr. Frink sent Aaron Rose and one of Mr. Cole's men to prospect, while we kept on at a snail's pace; for the animals were so weak they could hardly walk. We soon saw Aaron's signal, and driving out to the side of the road, we unhitched the horses and sent them to the river. To our great joy, the men had found a fine meadow untouched, there never having been an animal in it.

Mr. Frink and I remained with the large wagon by the roadside all day, the men having taken the small wagon with them to the meadow to fill it with grass. The men came up with a big load by sundown, at which time I had supper ready. It was a campful of happy people, to know that our half-starved animals had had so good a feed. At dark we were ready to start on a long night journey across another desert. There was a bright moon shining and we traveled steadily on. We did not find any water until we reached the river again, at three o'clock the next morning. I walked most of the way over the rough and dusty road.

Tuesday, August 20. This morning we traveled up the Carson River bottom, about ten miles, and at noon dined alone. Usually we have plenty of company. The road runs nearly parallel with the mountains on our right, gradually getting nearer. The emigrants are a woe-begone, sorry-looking crowd. The men, with long hair and matted beards, in soiled and ragged clothes, covered with alkali dust, have a half-savage appearance. There are but few women ; among these thousands of men, we have not seen more than ten or twelve.

The horses, cattle, and mules are getting gaunt, thin, and weak, almost ready to drop in their tracks, as hundreds of them have already done. The hoofs of many cattle wear out, so they can no longer travel, and are left to starve. The once clean, white wagon tops are soiled and tattered, and grimy with two thousand miles of gray dust. Many wagon beds have been cut off short to lighten them, or sawed in two to make carts. The spokes of the wagons left behind have been cut out to make pack-saddles. The rickety wheels are often braced up with sticks, the hubs wound with wet rags to keep the spokes in, the tires bound with wire, or wedged with chips of wood, to hold them from dropping off. They go creaking along the dusty roads, seeming ready to fall to pieces, drawn by weary beasts hardly able to travel, making up a beggardly-looking caravan, such as never was seen before. The great, splendid trains of fifteen, twenty, or thirty wagons have shrunk to three, four, or at most half a dozen, with three-fourths of their animals missing. Their former owners now trudge along on foot, packing on their backs the scant provisions left, with maybe a blanket, or leading skeleton horses that stagger under their light burdens. One of the “passenger trains” left most of its carriages by the side of the road, the passengers having to finish their journey on foot.

One only hope sustains all these unhappy pilgrims, that they will be able to get into California alive, where they can take a rest, and where the gold which they feel sure of finding will repay them for all their hardships and suffering.

Wednesday, August 21. Our road to-day continued to follow southward up the Carson. Part of the way was very rough, over volcanic beds of lava. The low hills push down near the river, leaving only a narrow passage for the wagons. We have seen no Indians for several weeks. There are no signs of game, though some of the emigrants have killed sage-hens, and it is said there are deer in the mountains. The sage-hens resemble prairie-chickens, though considerably larger. We never tire of looking at the great mountains that we are soon to climb over. They are so close now that the thick forests hide from view the snow fields above them.

Thursday, August 22. Our horse Mark mired down this morning and had to be dug out. This detained us for some time. We traveled eight miles in the forenoon, and then stopped to rest and feed the horses, as we have fifteen miles of desert road ahead. The roads have been very rough to-day. Mr. Frink had a short interview with some Californians who have come over to this side to prospect for gold. They are looking for a hidden lake in the mountains called “Gold Lake,” where the gold is said to exist in great quantities.

The men cut plenty of grass to take with us, and we made everything ready to start early in the morning, to cross another of the many Carson deserts. But these are small as compared with the “Humboldt desert.”

Friday, August 23. At sunrise we were ready to start. After traveling several hours, we stopped in the middle of the desert for dinner. Here we met several gold-hunters. Two of them had already found gold. The largest piece was thought to weigh $4.00.

(I have been over this part of the road since 1850. The gold these people had found is where “Gold Hill” is situated, near Virginia. City, Nevada.)

In four miles we came to the river. Four miles beyond that place we encamped for the night by ourselves, our traveling companions, Mr. Cole and his party, having gone on further. While we were at supper, two men came up afoot, each leading a mule. After picketing the animals, they sat down on the ground near us. They told us they had no provisions left, but having had their dinner to-day, they felt quite satisfied. They had started from Ohio with a good outfit, but the Indians had stolen their animals, and they had to leave their wagons and nearly everything else. We happened to have two biscuits left, and I handed one to each of them as I would to children. Our stock of provisions was low and we were living on short rations; but their condition was so much worse than our own that we resolved to give them their breakfast in the morning.

Saturday, August 24. We started at six o'clock and in four miles came into what was called the “Carson meadows.” During the forenoon we crossed two beautiful streams running from the snow-covered mountains now close at hand on our right. One of the gentlemen to whom we gave breakfast this morning, Mr. Russell, applied to have Mr. Frink bring him through to California, offering his mule for pay. As we were coming soon to where we could buy meat and flour, Mr. Frink consented to take him. The other man, having some money, went on by himself. We overtook Mr. Cole's party, who had decided to remain in camp for a while. We now met many gold-hunters, “prospectors,” as they are called. The trading posts became more frequent. Finding at one place some fresh beef just brought over the mountains from California, we bought five pounds, for which we paid $1.25.

Sunday, August 25. For several days we have been traveling along the foot of the Sierra Nevada, in a southerly direction. We drove ten miles to-day, and encamped near a meadow, in order to cut grass to take with us going over the mountains. There is no time for rest, even on Sunday.

Monday, August 26. We remained at our camp all the morning, waiting for our hay to dry in the hot sun, and tying it up in bundles ready for use on the mountains. This delayed us until three o'clock, when we started on our way. At a trading post we bought two pounds of rice for one dollar and a half. At night we had got within ten miles of the Carson cañon, and encamped on a beautiful ice-cold rivulet that ran out of the mountains and across our road. There are hot rivulets, too, which burn the mouths of unsuspecting drinkers. The great forests of immense trees come down the steep side of the mountains to the edge of the road.

Tuesday, August 27. We rose early this morning, fully prepared to expect a hard day's travel. After tugging over a heavy, sandy road for ten miles, we came, about eleven o'clock, to the mouth of the famous Carson cañon, where the road turns abruptly to the right, to enter it. This is a great, rocky gorge opening into the granite mountain, out of which rushes the west branch of Carson River, foaming, dashing, and tumbling over the huge rocks that have fallen into it from the high cliffs. It was six miles through this cañon over these rocks. The road, if it can be called a road, lay along the river, once or twice crossing it. The river was nothing but a chain of wild cascades. The road was but a track over and among piles of huge rocks. The teams were sometimes taken off and the wagons pried up and raised by levers, to get them over impassable places.

At noon we stopped in the cañon and took our lunch. Here we met some emigrants, among whom was a lady who had lost or left her husband behind. Their horses had been stolen by the Indians, and he went after them, but never returned. The mother, with seven children, had been brought thus far by strangers, and upon them she depended to get through to California.

In the afternoon we resumed our scrambling over the rocks and boulders that constituted the road, and continued until sundown, when, to our great relief, we had gotten out of the granite jaws of the mountain and had come to an open, level, beautiful valley, sprinkled over with trees. This is known as Hope Valley, which we thought an appropriate name. We went a mile further and camped in sight of the snow-covered mountains now near at hand. The night was very cold. There was heavy frost in the morning, and ice was formed in the water bucket. In preparation for a still colder climate, we got out our winter clothing to wear.

We are now in the state of Califonia. The line dividing it from Utah territory runs across the Carson cañon, which we came through this morning. But we have the high Sierras to cross before we get to where they are taking out the gold.

Hope Valley is two thousand three hundred eighteen miles from Martinsville.

 

CHAPTER IX.

 

Wednesday, August 28. It was seven o'clock before we started. About a mile before reaching the foot of the “one-mile mountain,” we stopped for lunch. The horse Mark got mired down again in a marsh, and we had a good deal of trouble in getting him dug out. At three o'clock in the afternoon we started up the mountain with the small wagon. We first put on four horses, then six. After getting that up, we went back for the large wagon. Most of the load was packed on the horses' backs. But still we could not get the large wagon up the steep road. At last we tied the wagon securely on a large, flat, slippery rock, and left Aaron Rose and William Johnson to sleep in it. Then we packed all the baggage we could on five horses, and harnessed the remaining horses to the small wagon. As it was now dark, we lit the lantern. I led four of the horses. Robert Parker had one, with a camp kettle and some provisions.

I went ahead with the lantern. Mr. Frink drove the wagon. The going down the mountain appeared to be only step by step, over shelving rocks. I tried to keep in front of Mr. Frink, to guide the wagon after the lantern. In this way we finally got to camp, one mile down from the top of the mountain, at ten o'clock at night. Here the mountain was lighted up with many burning trees. We found that one of our horses had been left behind. Mr. Frink went back with the lantern and found him half a mile back. We had crackers and tea for supper, and went to bed between twelve and one o'clock in the morning.

Fortunately, we here met a Mr. Hutton, from Illinois, who loaned us a tent for the night, -a style of shelter we now slept in for the first time on our journey.

Thursday, August 29. Mr. Frink got up by daylight to go back for the big wagon. He took Mr. Russell and Robert with him, leaving me by myself at the camp. When he reached the place, he rigged up some kind of a machine, and drew up the wagon by hand. They all returned to the camp by ten o'clock, by which time I had breakfast ready for them. Then they started off to hunt feed for the hungry horses, leaving me again at the camp.

Mr. Frink found good grass not very far away, and sent Mr. Russell back to camp for some bags, intending to fill them with grass for our horses on the next big mountain. When he was returning to where he had left Mr. Frink, he got lost, and in his wanderings came upon the body of a dead man with a whip in his hand; and he was so much frightened, he did not stop to examine him, or find out who he might be.

While I was in camp, there came along a man who had lost everything. He had one pint of corn meal left. He was without shoes, and his feet were tied up in rags. I made a dish of gruel, into which I put a little butter, with some other nourishing things. I encouraged him to keep up his spirits and try to go forward. By the time the men came in with the horses, I had dinner ready ; and by half past four o'clock we were ready to be off. Just as we were about starting, the Carsons came along with some Cincinnati people and their wagon.

We all went on together about four miles to Red Lake, which lies in a valley between the two summits. After we had encamped, the man to whom I had given the gruel came again to the wagon, having nothing to eat and no other place of shelter. I went to a trading post near by, and begged some meat for him. We remained at Red Lake that night.

Friday, August 30. It is five months this morning since we left home. We are now about to climb the main ridge of the snowy mountains, called the Sierra Nevada. From the base to the top the distance is five miles.

The snow is from ten to fifteen feet deep. We had been advised to start early in the morning, while the snow was frozen hard, before the sun would melt it. We had four horses harnessed to the big wagon, and two horses to the small wagon. The Carsons had two wagons, with four horses to each, having bought more horses at Ragtown, after losing their mules on the desert. Mr. Russell had his mules, but no wagon.

After traveling one mile from the edge of the lake, we came to the foot of the mountain. It was very steep and high, and looked impassable.

The road turned to the left and went up slanting, which was an advantage. But it was a hard struggle for the weak horses. Though the wagons were nearly empty, we had to stop often and let the animals rest.

After great toil, we had climbed by noon to the steepest part of the road, where it seemed impossible to go any further. Here the road turned directly south, and the sun at noon could shine right into it. The snow in the road was melted down to the ground, leaving the bare rocks to travel over. The snow walls on each side of this passage were twelve or fifteen feet high. From the foot of this steep place to the top was half or three-quarters of a mile.

We halted here and took our lunch, and fed to the tired horses the last of the hay that Mr. Frink had provided for them. So many teams were ahead of us, and climbing so slowly, that we could not start again till two o'clock. We first took everything we could out of the wagons, in order to lighten them, and packed them on Mr. Russell's mules. Then Mr. Frink unharnessed the two horses from the small wagon, and hitched them with the four horses on the large wagon. Then he tied long ropes to the tongue, and strung them out in front. Four or five men put these ropes over their shoulders and pulled with the horses. Others lilted at the wheels, and when the horses stopped, they held the wheels to keep the wagon from rolling back. Robert and I went ahead leading the pack mules. We found it all we could do to get up this steep place. We had to stop often and take breath. The air was getting lighter at every step, and the climbing was hard work.

At last Robert and I got to the top with the mules and their burdens. I was utterly exhausted. I took a buffalo robe from the packs and wrapped myself in it, and lay down by the side of the road on top of the mountain and went to sleep. I told Robert to keep watch over me and the mules.

After a long time Mr. Frink with the men and the six horses got to the top with the large wagon. Then they unhitched the horses and took them down to the foot of the steep place, and brought up the small wagon. The Carsons doubled their teams the same way, and Mr. Frink helped them get their wagons to the top. By five o'clock, after nine or ten hours of hard toil, struggle, and scramble, we were all safe on top of the main ridge of the Sierra Nevada. Thanks that the worst is now over.

We were above where all vegetation grew. When I awoke from my nap, my voice was gone. When Mr. Frink reached the top, he was almost worn out. He was more fatigued than at any other time during the journey. We had to go a mile further to encamp. There was some bare ground on the south side, but between the rocks there was plenty of snow. I gathered some of the snow for use in cooking supper. The horses were taken down a cañon a short distance, where was found plenty of good bunch-grass.

It was not far from this place that Col. John C. Fremont and his party of explorers crossed, in February, 1844, six years and six months before we did. He gave the height where he crossed as nine thousand three hundred thirty-eight feet above the sea, which is nearly two thousand feet higher than the summit of the South Pass, which we had crossed on the twenty-fourth day of June, and eleven hundred eight feet higher than the Bear River Range, which we had crossed on the Fourth of July.

During the night I was seized with a severe chill, the result of over-fatigue, from which I was only relieved by having some rocks heated in the fire, which served to restore warmth. Thus passed our first day and night on the Sierra Nevada.

Saturday, August 31. The men on guard with the horses had a frosty night of it, and came in early to breakfast. Some wild onions, or “leeks,” had been found, which, at dinner, we enjoyed very much. These were the first vegetables we had tasted since receiving the lettuce and onions from Captain Grant at Fort Hall, seven weeks before.

This was another hard day. We had expected an easier road down the mountains after crossing the main ridge, but were disappointed. Our road to-day was very rough, up and down mountains all the way.

To make matters worse, our white horse gave out today, he having fallen and hurt himself while he were coming up the one-mile mountain. He was a favorite horse, and we gave fifty cents a pound for flour to mix in water for him to drink, thinking it would strengthen him; but we only managed to get him as far as Tragedy Springs, where we had to leave him for the night. It was two miles further before we could find a camping-place, and the next morning, when Mr. Frink sent Russell back for him, he found the faithful animal dead.

These springs were named from a tragical affair occuring in 1849, in which two men, intoxicated, got into a fight with each other, in which one of them was killed.

Sunday, September I. We are still in the midst of rough mountains. They are covered with heavy forests of pine and fir. Many of the trees are of great size and very tall. Much of the time we are traveling in the shade. We have got below the snow fields, but not beyond the frost at night. In the sunshine at midday it is very warm. The dust is as deep as it was on the hot plains, and there is no wind to blow it away. It settles thick on everything along the road. The road is rough and the hills are often steep and rocky.

Before noon we came to a notice on a tree by the side of the road, saying that the Carson boys had turned off here to find feed, and inviting us to follow. We did so, and in a short distance came to a fine meadow. This style of telegraph was in general use on the plains. Notes were often seen stuck in a split rod planted by the side of the road, where everyone could see them. By this means news was conveyed to friends coming up behind.

We remained here all day. The men cut as much grass as we could well carry. We never knew when feed might be scarce. We had kept up this plan for three hundred miles down the Humboldt and one hundred miles up the Carson. By this means every animal came through, except the one lost by accident.

To-day we reached the region of oak timber. We had seen nothing but willows, cottonwoods, and pines for so long that the oaks seemed like old friends. Near our camp some black oak trees had been cut down, the leaves of which our horses ate greedily.

Before night the Carsons left us and drove on a few miles further to Leak Springs.

Monday, September 2. This morning we started early. There was no change for the better in the roads. The dust was very annoying. The only pleasant thing was the forest we were passing through.

An amusing incident occurred which might have proved serious but only produced a little fun. Robert had picked up a pair of Spanish spurs, and of course had put them on. He then attempted to ride our smartest mule, but had no sooner got on than he stuck his spurs into his sides, and then Billy sent him flying. I thought for a moment he must be seriously hurt, though I couldn't help laughing, he looked so ridiculous flying over the mule's head. We heard no more of Spanish spurs.

We got to Leak Springs early in the forenoon. Here a small stream of water leaked or trickled out from the rocks, but it was so full of mineral that it was not fit for man or beast. There was a trading post here, kept by a California trader, who had supplies to sell to the emigrants. His fresh beef hanging on a hook, not being protected, seemed likely to be eaten up by yellow jackets, which swarmed upon it like bees.

We met here the barefooted man to whom I had given the gruel at Red Lake. He knew our wagon from the name on the side. They had taken him in here until he recruited. He told us the most distressing tale. He had left Red Lake by a cut-off through the mountains, only a pathway, and he was very weak from having so little to eat. He said he found himself at what he called a cave, by the side of the mountain, where the side of the mountain was rock, straight up and down. He was so weak he could not climb, so he wandered around trying to find a place where he could get over ; and in his travels he found five dead men, and several others that were, like himself, looking for a place to climb the mountains, and all weak for want of food. He finally got out with some of the others, and, by hearing cow-bells, he had got assistance to a place where he was taken care of by the relief committee, sent out from Sacramento to assist suffering emigrants.

We bought flour at this place at thirty-seven cents per pound. From this time on to the end of our journey, trading posts were more frequent and prices more moderate. They generally kept a small supply of what the emigrants needed most, -beef, flour, bacon, beans, cheese, rice, ship-bread, dried herring, etc., etc.

Tuesday, September 3. This day we reached Dusty Ridge, which was well named. The dust was over our shoe-tops. Mr. Russell was very sick to-night, with symptoms like those of the cholera. In the morning, however, he was much improved and able to continue on the journey.

Wednesday, September 4. At noon we arrived at Pleasant Valley, where we stopped for lunch. Afterwards we concluded to remain all night. There were two or three miners here, but the diggings did not seem to be very rich.

We prospected a little for gold, through curiosity, but found none.

Thursday, September 5. Early this morning we reached Ringgold, which was the first regular miningcamp we came to. Here was another trading post. We bought a supply of potatoes at forty cents per pound. By this time we had found that in California all vegetables, fruits, and grain were sold by the pound, instead of the bushel, as at home.

They inquired of us of we had any flat-irons to sell. I had the very article, had brought them across the plains with remonstrance, and now thought there was a chance to make something, freight-money at least. But when I asked the man five dollars apiece, he only laughed at me, saying, “I guess you have learned all about California prices.” So there was no trade and the laugh turned on me. We were afterwards informed that flat-irons were plentier than cobble-stones in San Francisco, having been shipped from the eastern cities in great quantities.

We drove twenty-five miles to-day, and stopped for the night at a place where a shingle-mill had been set up, to make shingles from the pine timber. It is now a railroad station and called Shingle Springs. It is thirty-eight miles from Sacramento.

Friday, September 6. The roads to-day and yesterday are much improved. We are getting out of the high mountains, and descending into the Sacramento Valley. Our drive to-day was twenty-five miles, and brought us to the Rio de los Americanos, or American River, about fifteen miles above Sacramento, where we encamped for the night. The Carsons came up and joined us and also encamped here. Our journey is rapidly drawing to an end.

Saturday, September 7. This is our last day on the plains. We started early and at twelve o'clock passed Sutter's Fort, two miles east of the city. We stopped a few moments to examine the place which had become famous as the home of Captain Sutter, the owner of the mill where the first lump of gold was found, and the owner of the land on which Sacramento City was built. He was no longer living here, having moved to his ranch on Feather River, called Hock Farm, thirty miles from the city. The fort was deserted and going to decay, its walls and buildings being constructed of large bricks dried in the sun, and called by the Mexicans, adobes.

Being anxious to finish our journey and encamp for the night, we soon drove on; we did not enter the city, but turned southward to a place called Sutterville, on the east bank of the Sacramento River, three miles south of the city, and here made our last camp.

We had now traveled two thousand four hundred eighteen miles, to a point just one degree south of oUr starting-place, and four and a half degrees south of our northernmost camp at Fort Hall. The road we followed diverged three hundred miles from a direct line.

During the last eight days of the journey, we had descended, in traveling ninety miles, from a height of nine thousand three hundred thirty-eight feet, to within thirty feet of the tide-level of the Pacific Ocean.

We had left home just five months and seven days before. Our friends the Carsons came into camp with us. They had crossed the Missouri River with us on the fourteenth of May, at Bullard's Ferry, ten miles below Council Bluffs, but after that were separated from us for weeks and months at a time. They were strongly of the opinion that Mr. Frink would never get through, because he brought his wife with him. Yet here we are, all together once more, safe at the end of our long and eventful journey.

 

CHAPTER X.

 

Sunday, September 8. This morning a row-boat came up the river from San Francisco, containing five men, who stopped at the river bank to cook their breakfast. They told us they had come around Cape Horn, and narrated some of their privations on the long voyage. For many weeks they were on short rations, having only three crackers each, and a small supply of water, daily. For a time there was a fair prospect of their starving to death. After hearing their dismal stories, we concluded that our overland journey was, in comparison, but a pleasure excursion.

Monday, September 9. This was a memorable day in more respects than one; for, though we were not informed of it at the time, it was on this day that the bill was passed in Congress admitting California as a state into the Union. It was not until a month later that the news reached us by steamer from New York by way of the Isthmus of Panama, which at that time was the only means of communication with the rest of the United States.

To-day also witnessed the final breaking up of our party of gold -seekers, and the forming of new plans for its different members. The Carson brothers, who had joined us at the Missouri River, and whose camp was now near our own, removed their animals and wagons into the city, expecting to find there better opportunities of disposing of them, preparatory to setting out for the gold mines.

Mr. Aaron Rose, who came with us from Martinsville, and Mr. William Johnson, who, with his horse, accompanied us from Green River, bade us good-by and started off with high hopes for the rich mines of Yuba River, a large tributary of the Rio de los Plumas;* which flows into the Sacramento about twenty-five miles north of that city.

Our friend Mrs. Foshee, whom we last saw sitting in her stranded carriage in the middle of the Humboldt desert, was not deserted by her usual good fortune. Her party in the passenger train came through in good time and without incident; and soon after reaching Sacramento, she secured an engagement in a private family residing near our camp, at a salary of $100.00 per month.

Saturday, September 14. To-day Mr. Frink made a visit to the city of Sacramento to inquire for letters, as we had not heard from home since we left Martinsville. He found $5.00 worth of letters, the postage being forty cents on each. At the same time he bought some provisions, among them an onion, for which, alone he paid a dollar.

In the afternoon I went with Mr. Frink to the Methodist parsonage in the city, where we met the Rev. Mr. Penn, who came out in 1849. I inquired of him concerning the condition and prospects of the Baptist Church, and he informed me that the Rev. O. C. Wheeler, of New York City, was then in the city, having recently arrived from San Francisco to organize a Baptist Church in Sacramento. He politely offered to accompany me to where Mr. Wheeler was stopping, at the house of Judge Willis, who was then the first presiding judge of the court of sessions. I went with him, and we found there with Judge Willis the Rev. O. C. Wheeler and Rev. J. W. Capen. We were hospitably received and pleasantly entertained. After Mr. Penn had taken his leave, the other gentleman offered to see me to the camp of our friends, the Carson brothers, on L Street, where I had made an appointment to meet Mr. Frink.

I learned from the ministers that on the next day, Sunday, September 15, they were to meet at the courthouse, on the corner of I and Sixth Streets, to organize a Baptist Church. I left my letter to be handed in to the organization, and on the next day Mr. Frink and myself went up to the court-house and heard the Rev. O. C. Wheeler preach. After church we were all invited to dine at the house of Judge Willis, as there were to be further services in the afternoon. Mr. Frink thought it would not be prudent for him to stay away so long a time from our camp, but insisted that I should remain for the afternoon services. So I staid, and we were pleasantly entertained at Judge Willis' house. His family had not yet arrived in California, and the two clergymen, Revs. Wheeler and Capen, and a lawyer from Stockton, made up the rest of the company. Being the only lady present, I was invited to preside at the dinner table. The dinner was a good one, cooked by a Virginia negro woman.

In the afternoon we attended services at the courthouse once more. After church we returned to Judge Willis' house again, where I rejoined Mr. Frink, and we went back to camp. This was my first entire day in Sacramento.

Judge Willis' house still stands there, on the south side of H Street, between Sixth and Seventh. It was a very nice-looking place to me, after living out-of-doors for more than five months.

Saturday, September 21. We remained in our Sutterville camp till Mr. Frink rented a house in town, opposite to where the Golden Eagle Hotel now stands. The house had been brought from Baltimore and was used for a time as a retail store. There was one large room below and one above, with stairs on the outside. Nothing was finished but the sidings and floor. I could put my hand through the cracks between the boards. We paid $175.00 for the first month's rent. There was a counter in the room, but we had no furniture. Mr. Frink bought $18.00 worth of lumber, from which he made a dining table, and benches to serve as chairs. He put up a tent in the rear for a kitchen, and paid $50.00 for the kitchen stove. He put a sign over the door, “Frink's Hotel,” and we were ready for business.

Our first customers were two men, who, seeing there was a woman in the house, came in and asked for breakfast, which I quickly made ready for them, setting it on the counter, as the table and benches were not yet finished. I had only the tin cups and tin plates we had crossed the plains with, but the men were delighted to stand up and eat their breakfast, for which they willingly paid $1.00 each. This was our beginning in business in California.

During the first month Mr. Frink sold the horses, wagons, and harness, which enabled us to buy such articles of furniture as could be found for sale, which, however, were very scarce. He paid $10.00 for four old chairs. Table ware was more plentiful. After a few weeks a vessel arrived from New York with a variety of goods. Mr. Frink bought a dozen new chairs, which we regarded as a luxury.

By the end of the first month, October 20, we had cleared $200.00. One week later the cholera broke out. All who could do so left for the mountains. Our business fell off and became very light. Through illness Mr. Frink had become very feeble, being barely able to attend to marketing and the financial department. Then Robert fell sick, and finally myself also, though I continued able to give directions to a boy we employed at $75.00 per month.

To show the fatal character of the cholera, one evening a stranger called to stop for the night. He informed us he had been working on a ranch but was now on his way to the mines. After paying his bill in the morning, he asked for pen, ink, and paper, and sat down to write. Mr. Frink being called away, returned about two hours after, and found the man very sick. The man had but just returned from seeing a doctor and now desired Mr. Frink to call the doctor again, which he did. The doctor staid with him till he died, which was about midnight, he having been sick but a few hours.

We then found that the stranger had written over three sheets of paper; but there was no name of person or place by which he or his friends could be identified.

This was a gloomy time. Every day wagons passed by loaded with empty coffins, going out to gather up the unknown dead from the hay-yards and vacant lots, to bury them, without the presence or knowledge of friends or relatives.

One day, while Mr. Frink was at the cemetery, there were six men digging graves. They pointed to a box, saying that the man in the coffin was working with them the day before. The epidemic raged about one month, in which time it carried off at least one thousand persons.

Saturday, November 30. Business having deserted K Street, where we were, we rented a house on ; Street between Sixth and Seventh Streets, very similar to the K Street house, except that the stairs were on the inside. For this we paid $300.00 per month in advance, taking a lease for one year, to continue the hotel business. Soon after moving in we rented onethird of the front as far back as the stairway -about twenty feet-for a clothing store, for $100.00 per month. Then Mr. Frink bought three cows for $275.00. The milk was worth $2.00 per gallon, but instead of selling it, we used it all in the hotel, placing most of it on the table for our customers. Finding this good policy, Mr. Frink bought more cows, till we had thirteen in all. All the milk was used on the table. This was a great attraction to men, many of whom had not tasted milk for one or two years. No other hotel in the city set it free on the table for their guests to drink. People would come from distant parts of the city to get meals on account of the fresh milk.

Business now increased rapidly. We had no difficulty in paying the high rent.

Soon after locating on ; Street our customers began leaving their gold-dust with us for safe keeping, until sometimes there would be as much as eight or ten thousand dollars worth at one time. The only place we had to store it was between the mattresses on which we slept. One morning it was reported that a store in the next block had been robbed during the night. After breakfast Mr. Frink informed his depositors that he would not keep their gold-dust any longer, and that he intended to deposit his own gold-dust in a bank that very day, which he did.

In May, 1851, Mr. Frink purchased an established dairy of twelve cows, with two horses and wagon, a lot of chickens, turkeys, milk cans, and a possessory claim to sixty acres of land under fence, with a cabin, for $2,250.00. We now had a dairy of twenty-five cows, the milk of which was sold in the city, producing a profit of $40.00 a day, after supplying the hotel.

In August, 185 I, we sold out the hotel, and purchased another dairy of twenty-five cows, making in all fifty head. Mr. Aaron Rose, who crossed the plains with us, was employed to sell the milk and collect the money, at $150.00 per month. The milkers were paid from $75.00 to $80.00 per month.

 

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We had by this time given the land of gold a fair trial. We had come here as gold-seekers only, not as settlers. But after a year's residence in the delightful valley of the Sacramento, we had satisfied ourselves that no pleasanter land for a home could be found, though we should roam the wide world over. We gave up our plan of further travels. We had traversed the continent, from the far east to the farthest west, and were now on the verge of its broadest ocean. But we had no wish to tempt the perils of the great deep. The future of California seemed to us full of promise, and here we resolved to rest from our pilgrimage.

With this plan in view, Mr. Frink, in October, 1851, secured by purchase two large lots on the corner of M and Eighth Streets, as the location for our new home. The ready-built cottage which started when we did from Martinsville, on its long voyage around Cape Horn, and which had safely arrived at Sacramento, was put together and completely set up inside of a week from the commencement of the work. On the fifteenth day of the same month we moved into it and thus established our first permanent home in California, after an absence of nearly twenty months from our fat-away former home in Indiana.

As the years passed on the mushroom city of tents and rough board houses grew, in defiance of fires and floods, to be the capital of the state, and one of its most prosperous, beautiful, and wealthy cities. The modest White River cottage gave way to a larger and more permanent residence. The grounds grew more attractive each year, with the luxuriant shrubbery and flowers that belong to California. The vine and the fig tree gave their welcome shade to temper the summer warmth, while comparatively little protection, in so genial a climate was needed against even the coldest months of the winter. The progress of time only confirmed us more strongly in our choice of a home, and we never had occasion to regret the prolonged hardships of the toilsome journey that had its happy ending for us in this fair land of California.

Mrs. Margaret A. Frink
Oakland, California

 

*Note [From original publication]: The principal eastern branch of the Sacramento River was named by the earliest Spanish explorers, “EI Rio de los Plumas,” - The River of Plumes - from the countless flocks of waterfowl that frequented its marshes. This name continued to be generally known and used by the American population throughout the Sacramento Valley, for many years after the discovery of gold, though gradually displaced at length, to great extent, by the prosaic name, “Feather River.” Plum.. County takes its name ·from the river, which rises within its boundaries.