PLANS

An eager group we were, surrounding the fire that March evening. Father had come home late and was very silent. As he entered, I had seen him give Mother a quick nod not meant for us children, and had seen her face lose its tired look and seem to glow with a new fire. With difficulty I had waited for the disclosures I felt sure would come when supper was over and the dishes cleared away.

That winter had been a sad one for the Vanderburgh family. The fact that the war was surely drawing to a close was dwarfed to us by the news which had come in a letter from the chaplain of my oldest brother's company. He wrote to tell us of a new grave near Vicksburg. After that, Father and Mother seemed to have no heart for planning another year on the Iowa farm. Their one desire seemed to be to sell the place and start anew in some spot where perhaps they would not feel their loss so keenly. But where? During the cold winters Father was often ill; he needed a warmer climate. He dared not take his family into the unsettled South, even if he had been willing to live in secession territory. Again and again the problem had been discussed but no solution had been reached.

Then came a letter from Uncle Alfred Collver, Mother's brother in far off Oregon. It was a wonderful letter. Over and over we read it. To Winfield, my fifteen-year old brother, and me, it seemed that Oregon must be the most wonderful spot in the world. Father and Mother must have thought so too. They talked about it so much, the wonderful climate, the warm winters, the beautiful harbor, the thousands of orchard trees, the great forests of valuable timber, the coal mines, and always again, the climate.

ON THE ROAD

Father and Mother sat on the seat of one wagon, that first morning, Father driving the fine team of dappled grays, Derby and Prince, a team that soon became our pride and joy; they were so friendly and so true. At first Carrie and I and the three little boys had seats on the boxes and bedding under the cover. Carrie soon grew tired of her place there, however. Most of the journey she rode on the seat of one of the other wagons. It was always fun for us, though, to curl up on the bedding, looking out from beneath the cover flaps. Always there was something new to be seen, and I'm sure Father grew tired of questions.

Two brothers, Tom and Chris Halligan, sons of a neighboring farmer we had always known, had been hired to drive the other wagons and help with the work of the travel. During the first half of the journey, Win rode where he pleased, much of the time with Henry Acker in one of their wagons. Major trotted happily beside the horses when we did not have him in the wagon with us.

Our wagons were well, but not heavily, loaded. Uncle Isaac and his brother Joe, who had decided to emigrate too, knew from experience that it was better to take an extra wagon than to have to travel slowly. One could always sell an extra outfit in the West if it was not needed, they said. They had helped Father make a list of necessary articles, and had advised as to the packing. It was well for us that they were experienced, too, as we were saved many a hardship suffered by those who took with them unneeded things and discarded articles of great value on the plains. That list was so long that when I read it I wondered if there would be any room in the wagons for us.

Here we were, however, all comfortably seated and ready for the long journey, ready except for some stores that Father planned to buy at Council Bluffs. All our clothing, bedding, cooking utensils, and the food to be used first were in the wagon with us. One wagon carried little but horse feed to last until the horses grew accustomed to eating the prairie grass. The other was loaded with stores of various kinds, food, the tent, the camp stove, a canvas sling behind in which to put scraps of wood for our fires, and extra ammunition, for though the Indians had not been troublesome for a long time, there was always uncertainty concerning them.

We soon joined Uncle Isaac and Aunt Caroline Acker with their family and their three wagons and Uncle Joe and Aunt Emmy Acker with their wagons. I was glad, for Florence climbed in with us. She was two years younger than I, but somewhat larger. As I was leaving every other playmate behind, I was surely glad of her company.

"Mother says I may ride with you today," she announced. "Isn't it fun?"

Surely it was. We pulled the bedding around until we had a comfortable nest and curled up happily as we rumbled on. The flaps were down that morning and we couldn't see much excepting straight ahead, so we were glad after a while when Father stopped a moment to rest his horses. We scrambled out, Winfield and Henry Acker who was a year younger than he, and Florence and I. We ran on ahead of the wagons, glad of the freedom. Indeed we were to learn that frequent turns at walking were delightful, and many a mile of that long trip did we travel afoot.

Those first nights before we reached Council Bluffs we spent at farmhouses, generally at the houses of friends where we paid last visits. We bought milk and fruit and vegetables along the way so as not to deplete our stores. It was all so new to us, those first days on the road, and so interesting. To our parents, when they looked at their six children and what were now their worldly possessions, in those three wagons, and thought of the slow months of travel ahead, it must have seemed a tremendous undertaking. To us it was a lark. COUNCIL BLUFFS Early one evening we drove into Council Bluffs, then a village of a few hundred inhabitants, swarming with emigrants, humming with talk of the plains.

Father and Uncle Isaac planned to finish provisioning there, the last chance to buy supplies for many hundreds of miles. If possible, too, they wanted to join a horse train with which to travel. Cattle and horses, it had been found, did not work together successfully. The slowness of the cattle fretted and irritated the horses. The cattle, too, spoiled the pasture. It was very important that our teams should find grass to their liking.

We camped on the low ground, down the river from the town, among a small village of emigrant wagons and tents. Everyone seemed in high spirits. Here and there a banjo was thrumming or a group singing.

After supper that night as Florence and I were in the tent helping Mother make our beds, we heard laughing and shouting outside. We ran out. At a camp near ours a rowdy group were guying a man who seemed almost insane. He was chasing the others with a stick and vowing he would "clean out the crowd." We edged close to get better view. One of the men would sing:

Look out, boys, why don't you be quick? Here's a wild Irishman with a big stick.

The man would start toward him brandishing his club, but another would take up the song and he would forget the first and start for the second. It was all very funny, but Uncle Isaac saw us there and called us away, so we didn't see how the matter ended. We heard the song many a time, however, for Robert and Darius never forgot a rhyme.

The next morning, while Father was in the town with one of the wagons and Mother was washing the dishes, using a wagon tongue for a table, a horse broke loose from some men who were trying to harness him and charged wildly through the camp, rushing past groups of people who scattered in all directions. It was coming straight toward our tent. Baby Charles was lying on the ground, directly in its path. Horrified, we started toward him but the horse was nearer than we. Just as it seemed his great feet would crush the little fellow, he stopped, stepped carefully and slowly over the baby, then ran madly charging away. It was a terrible fright for us all, but as Florence said, "That horse wasn't so bad after all."

The next day, as well prepared for the plains as Father and Uncle Isaac knew how to prepare, we crossed the Missouri River to Omaha. That ferry trip was my first boat ride. We walked across the gangplank to the upper deck of the big boat - Mother, Aunt Caroline, and all of us children. The men drove the wagons onto the lower deck and unhitched the horses, to stand at their heads all the way across the river. Only the first row of teams remained hitched to the wagons, so that they could be driven off quickly at the Omaha landing. The tongues of the other wagons were slipped each under the rear of the wagon ahead so as to take up as little space as possible. It was a big boat, that ferry; three hundred wagons and hundreds of loose cattle were in that one load.

As the big steam flatboat edged slowly across the broad river toward the farther side, we watched the nearing bank with interest, glad to be on the upper deck where we could see all about us. When at last the shore was reached and the ferry slips in place, it took a long time to unload, though each man hitched up and drove off as quickly as possible in the order in which he had driven onto the boat. We waited on the bank, watching the passing teams until our own appeared.

As we started on, Father said, "There was a mule train on that ferry that I think it would be well for us to travel with. Mules and horses travel at about the same rate of speed and get on well together."

"Would we want to travel with a mule train?" I asked. "Horses are so much nicer."

Father laughed. "We want to travel with any train that does not use cattle," he said, "And the bigger the train we can join, the better."

We were soon out of the little town, driving over low, swampy ground. Looking back from the seat where I had climbed, as Mother and Carrie and the baby were in the other wagons, I could see some of the mule teams following behind. Those mules became a familiar sight to us. We traveled with them all the way to Ford Laramie, though that train was never really a part of the big Daily Train that before many days we joined.

THE LAST HOUSE

All that day we had not seen the sun, and as evening came on, the clouds grew heavier. A drizzle began which soon changed to a downpour. We had our first experience of a prairie schooner in the rain. I climbed back with Robert and Darius and, curled on the rolls of bedding, listened to the patter.

"Don't touch the wagon top," Father said' "The canvas will leak if you do, wherever you touch it." Of course I tried the experiment and filled my sleeve with water. I didn't try it a second time.

Splashing along over the swampy ground listening to the beat of the rain was fun, but I wondered what kind of camp we could make that night.

Suddenly our wagon stopped. I sprang up to discover the reason. Father jumped down over the wheel and went to a house by the roadside, one of the very few houses we saw after leaving Omaha. Presently he came back and announced that we were to stay at the house that night.

We drove into a big barn and from there ran to the house, thankful for the warm fire that greeted us and the good roof, the last one we were to have over our heads for over four long months.

The next day dawned bright and clear. After a good breakfast, we started on, glad of the sunshine. As we left the Missouri River the ground became less swampy. It lay about us, a vast flat grassy plain. Father and Uncle Isaac, anxious to find the grass unspoiled for the horses, wanted to travel rapidly at first to leave the cattle trains behind.

After lunch that day Florence and I ran on ahead of the wagons. The road lay before us, a single straight track through thick, high grass. Something moving caught my eye. "Look!" I gasped, pointing in horror to the road ahead. Snakes were no novelty to me, but such a snake! Its head was in the grass on one side of the road and its tail in the grass on the other. All Florence saw was a quivering in the grass; she had not looked quickly enough. I caught her hand and we raced back to the wagons.

"What's the trouble?" Uncle Isaac called as we ran to him.

"I saw a snake," I told him. "It was longer than the road is wide."

He laughed and pulled us up over the wheel. "Seeing things a bit, I fancy," he said. "We'll get used to these little creatures before we reach Oregon."

"It wasn't little," I said indignantly. "Wait till you see its track." When we reached the spot, he climbed out and looked at the track a moment, whistled softly and said: "I'll give it up. I think I'd have run myself." It was a day or two before I really enjoyed walking again.

THE DAILY TRAIN

Keeping ahead of the mule train, we traveled on for two or three days, Father often asking the horsemen who were coming and going between Omaha and the (to us unknown) West, for news of a horse train that we might join. He heard several times of the Daily Train that had crossed the Missouri a day ahead of us.

At last one evening after traveling fast all day, we saw their camp ahead. For some reason, a fortunate circumstance for us, they had been delayed. We drove up and Father and uncle Isaac went into their camp to talk with their captain. While Tom and Chris were pitching our tent, the mule train arrived and stopped near us. I saw some men leave the wagons and go over to the group where Father was talking.

It was such fun those days to get our tent pitched and our stove set up and our beds made that I soon forgot the consultation going on, in trying to help Mother. I had never worked very much at home, and now people seemed to find my help a bit doubtful. Three years before, I had been very ill, so ill, in fact, that though I had become strong again, I had not since grown at all, excepting, Carrie said, my eyes and yellow hair, which only frequent bobbing would keep in check. Always I had been sent out to play, as Father thought fresh air the best medicine for me. I had found the plan a very satisfactory one but now, as everything had to be done outdoors everything seemed like play.

Chris lifted our food box down from the front of the wagon, and Carrie built a fire in the Russian iron camp stove while Mother was peeling potatoes and parsnips. Soon they were steaming in iron pots on the stove, and some of our wild crab apples were simmering in the brass kettle. Then Mother made biscuits which baked beautifully in the oven of our wonderful new stove, and fried bacon and prepared gravy. How good it all smelled.

Carrie got out the dishes, a thick china plate and cup for each of us, and a knife and fork and spoon. How glad we were before the journey's end for those china dishes and for the stove. The tin dishes used by many were very hard to keep right. With the stove Mother could stand up to cook instead of having to bend over a campfire with her face in the smoke. When I watched some of the other women, choking in the fumes of the fires, their backs bent until they must have felt ready to break, I often thought, "I'm glad my mother doesn't have to cook that way." Our stove, too, burned very little wood, and on the treeless prairies, that was a great advantage.

When Father returned, everything was ready for our plates to be filled. We sat on the ground to eat. Father seemed much pleased. "It is all settled," he said. "We have joined this train. Mr. Daily, the captain, said they are glad to have us. They want all the men they can get. The mule train will travel with us, too, so we are with a very big train now and the big trains are the safe ones."

When I brought my plate back to be refilled, Father looked at me in surprise. "How is this?" he asked. "Philura eating like this already? Mother, you will have to begin sewing before we reach Oregon." Truly I thought I had never been so hungry. Father's guess as to my beginning to grow proved correct, for before there was a suitable time for sewing, my dresses were becoming very small.

While we were eating we heard a disturbance in the direction of the road and saw another group of wagons arriving. Later in the evening when Father let me go with him through the big camp, I heard some men talking of the new party. "they are a mighty fine crowd to have with us," a man was saying. "Twenty extra men, if the Indians are troublesome, will be good to have around."

"Where are they going?" another asked.

"To the mines near Boise. Most of them have been soldiers in the Union Army. Lucky they happened along. We have so many women and children with us."

I quite agreed with the man. Soldiers would be good to have with us if the Indians were bad.

When we walked past their wagons I noticed that they had no tents. One man was playing jig tunes on a fiddle and another was telling a story that I very much wanted to hear. They seemed a happy party. During the whole trip that group of young men with their songs and stories and fiddles was an extremely popular section of the train. Many a difficulty they turned into a mere laughing matter.

When we returned to the tent, Florence and her mother and little two-year-old sister, Eoline, were sitting on the ground talking to Mother.

"I wish you had come sooner," I said to Florence. "It was fun to go through the camp with Father."

"We saw something, too," she said. "We saw an Indian. He didn't look very clean and he didn't wear many clothes. He just stood around and stared at Major. He didn't know what to think of his funny nose. Major didn't like him either. I wish he'd bite him. I don't like Indians."

"Major won't give them much of a chance to disturb our things if they want to," Father said. Major seemed to know what was being said and laid his flat nose on Father's knee to have his ears pinched. We were used to seeing people stare at him; a double-nosed pointer was not a common dog. He was a delightful playmate and we were proud of him. Father said he was a wonderful hunter as well as a good watchdog.

When Aunt Caroline started to leave that night, I had an idea. "May Florence stay with us tonight?" I asked. "There is room with Carrie and me."^

Aunt Caroline hesitated and Mother said, "Yes, why not let her stay?"^

As we all urged, she consented and that was the first of many, many nights that Florence spent in our tent. Father said she forgot whose girl she was and thought she belonged to him. As our camps were always made close together, she was never far from home.

The next morning as we were climbing into the wagons, Florence said, "Look, there is that Indian again. Look at Major." The dog was standing at the horses' heads, growling deep in his throat. He looked so vicious that we all laughed. The Indian was clad only in a breechclout, and carried a bow and arrows. He was the first one I saw on the plains. He stood looking wonderingly at Major's queer nose. When Father started the horses, the dog smoothed his hair and trotted away ahead of the wagon. THE INDIAN Not until we were lined out along the road did I realize the size of our train. Three hundred white-topped wagons stretched far out across the prairie. Very pretty they looked in the sunshine following the thread of road through the green grass. Riding back along the length of the train was a dark-faced, trim-looking man on a beautiful bay horse. He was looking closely at the wagons. As he passed he lifted his hat and very pleasantly said, "Good Morning."

Father answered him, then said to us, "That is Mr. George,* the scout for the daily train." (* Mother was never quite sure that she remembered this name correctly.)

"What does he do?" I asked.

"Oh, he will choose our camp grounds and find water, and decide what roads to follow. He is our guide and plainsman. We are like a little army and he and Captain Daily are our officers. A fine sort they seem, too."

"If we are an army, some of us won't be very good soldiers, I'm afraid," Florence said. "Charlie here couldn't do much with a gun." We all laughed at the idea of a baby fighting Indians.

"We don't need to fear Indians from present indications," Father said. "it has been a long time since they were troublesome. These fellows wandering around might steal something, but we don't need to fear them."

While we were eating our lunch that day, the Indian we had seen watching Major rode into camp again and sat on his pony looking at the dog. When Father had finished eating, he dismounted, came up to him and asked, "His nose hurt? Knife? Cut?" He pointed to Major's nose and to his own.

Father laughed. "Oh, no," he said. "He's a double-nosed pointer. His nose isn't split. Their noses are always like that."

What he good for?"

"He's a good watchdog. Can't you see that you'd better keep away from him?" Major bristled and growled every time the Indian moved toward him.

"You sell him? Give pony." He pointed to his horse.

"No," Father said, "he's too valuable to eat."

"No eat!" exclaimed the Indian. "No eat! No-o-o! No-o-o-o! Keep dog. No eat him. Keep him. You sell him? Give pony."

"No," Father said, "I don't need a pony and I do need the dog."

"He hunt?" asked the Indian.

"Yes, he's a good bird dog, but I won't sell him."

"Give two ponies."

"No, no I need the dog and I don't need the ponies. He doesn't like you, anyway." Father turned away and called Derby and Prince. They left the grass they were cropping and came to be hitched to the wagon. The Indian stood about for a moment longer, then sprang onto his pony and rode away.

"Major wouldn't be of much use to him," Winfield said as he put away the lunch box. "He'd like too well to bite him."

"I wish he would bite him. I'm afraid he will steal him." Robert gave him some scraps from the lunch and really seemed afraid we would lose him.

"You don't need to worry. No one would want him long with the disposition he shows when he does not like people."

"Yes," Robert argued, "but they do steal, and they might get him."

"Major can take care of himself. We always have him with us anyway." The wagons were ready, so we started on. The next day at noon the Indian was back, this time with two ponies to trade for the dog. When Father refused, he rode off looking very solemn. Robert was more anxious than ever, though Father assured him that Major was safe. That night he was at our camp with four ponies, little, rangy, spotted beasts that we could have no use for. Again, Father refused and the Pawnee rode off shaking his head.

As he disappeared among the wagons I heard shouts of "Whoa! Whoa! Whoa, there!" accompanied by the sounds of a fighting horse. Chris Halligan, braced backward, his feet dragging stiffly on the ground in front, was trying desperately to hold a big stallion, one of Father's horses which had charged the Indian. The wide-spread mouth and big wicked teeth were within a foot of the Indian's head as the horse tried viciously to reach him. In spite of Chris's efforts, it looked as if another Indian would be scalped. Someone sprang to help hold the horse, and how that Indian ran!

When the laughter had subsided, Father said, "That ought to keep him away. He doesn't seem popular with our animals. I don't see what he wants of the dog anyway. Major certainly doesn't like him any better than the horse does. Whenever an Indian comes around, boys," he continued, "Warn him about that horse. He makes too much trouble." And so they men did. Whenever a red man appeared, he was told to look out for the horse, a very necessary warning for both the Indian and for us. The very smell of an Indian drove the horse frantic.

The next day, however, the Pawnee was back, though this time he kept a wary eye out for trouble. He offered five horses, then six, seven, ten. Finally Father said, "No, it doesn't matter how many horses you offer, or what you offer. I won't sell the dog. You havent' anything I need and I do need the dog. I won't sell him at all." The Indian left then, his face very sullen. Robert watched him anxiously. "I hope he will stay away, now," he said. "I don't like his hanging around." We never saw him again.

A few mornings later, however, when Robert called Major, he did not come. We called and whistled in vain and looked for him for days. Many tears were shed for our pet, tears not only for our loss, but for Major's troubles also. He hated Indians so thoroughly that some very unfair advantage must have been taken of him, otherwise he could not have been stolen. Our loss was not soon forgotten, though the strangeness of our surroundings kept us busy with unexpected experiences. THREE SPRINGS One day we saw a strange cavalcade moving across the prairie. While they were still too far away for us children to see the nature of the train, we were watching it excitedly. As they drew nearer we saw a long line of Indian ponies, little wiry half-wild beasts loaded with, well, what not?

"Moving day for sure," Father said."

"Where are they going? Why are they moving?" I asked.

"They are going to meet the buffalo herds as they come from the south," he explained, "And to follow them as they go north. They do that every year. They will follow them until they have meat to last most of the summer. In the fall they will meet them again and follow them toward the south."

We were watching a band of Pawnees moving, and a funny moving day it was. The long line of ponies, so long that we could never see them all at once, trailed over the plain. Bareback riders, their dirty blankets flapping, were herding the laden horses. Indian carry-alls, two long poles fastened one on either side of a pony, the long ends dragging on the ground behind, were loaded with valuables. Skins, tepees, lodge-poles, baskets and bundles of all descriptions, babies in their queer cradles, sick people in their beds, any too old or too young or too weak to sit on a horse, were loaded onto these queer vehicles, fastened in some way and dragged clattering and bouncing over the ground. Hanging in baskets slung on either side of a pony to balance were many children. Very funny they looked, too, peeping over the basket rims at us, but I suppose that we looked just as strange to them. We watched them delightedly as they trailed past, I was glad, however, that I was not a sick Indian.

After we reached the sand hills that bordered the Platte River, we camped one night at a place that the scout said was called Three Springs. Within one hundred yards of each other were three big pools of delicious water. It was a beautiful camping spot. The sandhills about the green valley floor were covered with what looked like flaming red and yellow flowers. As soon as the wagons stopped, we children, Robert, Florence and I, ran across the grassy meadow-like bottom to gather the flowers. When we reached them we found that they were not flowers but the thick, fleshy leaves of a plant that grew about a foot in height. The waxy leaves were beautiful from a distance, but not pretty to pick.

disappointed about our flowers, we ran on over the hills. The place was so lovely and the evening so pleasant that we wandered far. Though dusk was beginning to gather and coyotes were howling here and there, we played on. Knowing the coyote well, we had no thought of fear. Suddenly, however, another sound startled us. The long mournful howl of a big gray wolf wailed across the prairies. With one accord, play forgotten, we started for camp. We had wandered farther than we had thought. It seemed we ran for miles before we reached the wagons and felt safe once more. We had often been told not to go far away; such advice was not needed again for many a day.

At Three Springs was the first sutler's camp that we saw on the road. A brown circular tent housed a tiny store where provisions, medicines and liquors could be bought. The man had stopped following the army in the Civil War campaigns and with his little tent and wagon now catered to the emigrant trains. In his stock Father said he saw quantities of beads and other trinkets for trade with the Indians. We grew accustomed to seeing these little stores, but I don't think we ever had to buy anything from them.

Occasionally as we traveled we would overtake another train and travel with them for a day or two; then, as our train was a fast one, we would leave them behind. Again we would rest the horses for a day and do washing or other work we could not do well while traveling. At such times a train might overtake us. Gradually, however, we drew away from the other trains. We had started early in April that we might find the grass fresh for our horses, and the men were anxious to keep that advantage all the way to Oregon. Of course, numbers of trains were ahead of ours, but we always found good pasture. A pleasant thing about being early, too, was the absence of dust. We were free from the clouds that surrounded later trains and made breathing hard and camping unpleasant.

ANOTHER RAIN

Although we had traveled one day in the rain, we had yet to learn what such travel could be. A day came when a heavy ran and a driving wind from the west made us bundle ourselves under the wagon tops with all the flaps fastened down. We were cozy and comfortable despite the patter and spash ad the blustering wind. As night came on, there was no friendly house to offer us shelter. We faced a dismal prospect and we children wondered how our beds could be made on the water-soaked ground and how our tent could be pitched in the wind.

"We won't have any trouble making a fire," I reminded the little boys, "For Father's wax matches will burn no matter how it rains or blows." Those wax matches were a real luxury, for never once on the journey did we have trouble building a fire. Often and often the little sulphur matches, of which every one had quantities, would go out in a wind, but never once did the wax matches fail. People were not wasteful with matches, I remember, but often carried firebrands from one campfire to light another.

"No tent for us tonight," Father called as he stopped the horses and climbed out to unhitch them.

What will we do? Where an we sleep?" Robert asked.

"Where hundreds of others have slept all the way across," Father answered. "Right in the wagons."

"Can we use the stove?" I asked. "How can we cook?"

"We can't cook," Mother answered as she prepared to open the food box. "We will have a lunch tonight." She must have been glad for the ham she had boiled the previous evening and the extra pan of biscuits baked that morning. I'm sure I was. Not often did Mother's plans prove unequal to a situation.

When Father and Win and Tom and Chris climbed into the wagon after feeding the horses, the place was well filled. It was fun to eat that way, huddled together, sheltered from teh storm. Mother passes us food directly from the box and a real picnic we had. I was sorry for the horses, though. We had no shelter for them.^M^MSoon all the boys but the two little ones went off to make their beds in one of the other wagons, and we pulled the blankets and comforts about and curled up for the night. Our wagon was truly full. After that night I think we really appreciated our tent. Only once again did we sleep int eh wagons, and that time it was not a storm which caused the discomfort.

Morning dawned clear and bright. Our stove was set up in the sparkling steamy air, and never did a warm breakfast taste better.

After things were packed away and we had climbed into the wagons again, I received a surprise. All day long I was puzzled and even Father's explanations did not correct my wrong impressions. When we started, the whole train turned and, as I thought, headed back for Iowa. Huddled under the wagon top the evening before, I had not known that we had turned, the better to keep out the rain. All day I felt that we were going back. Even the sun seemed in the wrong direction. The next day, however, it semed to rise in the east and I felt that we were traveling to the west once more. QUICKSAND As the waters of the Platte River were high at that season of the year, fording was not safe and we stayed on the north bank. Later in the season emigrants saved many miles of travel by fording and re-fording the river.

One evening after our camp had been made we saw the scout riding out into the river to see if a crossing could safely be made. Florence and I, with many others, watched him as the beautiful bay waded deeper and deeper into the water. Suddenly the horse began to flounder. Instantly Mr. George turned him and he quickly regained his footing and waded to the bank. "We won't try it," the scout said. "Better to travel a few days longer than to take the risk. There's quicksand there."

Later in the evening a small train that had been traveling with us for a day or two drove past us and headed toward the river. Mr. Daily and Mr. George hurried to them. "Are you thinking of trying it?" Mr. Daily asked.

"Yes, we'll camp on the other side and save that big bend tomorrow. This is a good ford."

"I just tried it and found quicksand," Mr. George said. "It is very unsafe. I don't like to see you take such a chance."

"Where did you go in?" asked one of the men.

"Out there, following that sand bar," Mr. George pointed. "The quicksand is very bad, you'd have a poor chance of getting across. "

"We'll go upstream a bit," the man said, and followed by the other wagons, eight or ten of them, he drove into the water.

The river there, swollen by melted snows, was perhaps three hundred yards wide. Near the middle stood a small island. We watched them anxiously as they tried to follow the upper edge of the sand bar and pass above the island. They got on well, though the water was deep for fording, until they were nearly across.

Suddenly the leading team went down. We couldn't see them very well from the distance, but presently a man was on the bank. Somehow he got his horses out. By that time the other teams were floundering. Powerless to help, we watched them. One team, cut loose from the wagon, swam ashore, and a man swam out and fastened a rope to the end of the wagon tongue. Then with his horses he drew the floating wagon to the land. By this time most of the teams were swimming or struggling in the quicksand. Ropes were carried from the bank by swimming men, tied to the struggling teams, and with help from the men and horses on shore, they were finally all rescued. As the last wagon was drawn up the bank, a cheer rang across the water. We waved our congratulations. A tragedy had been narrowly averted.

I heard Mr. George say as he left the bank, "We'll keep to the north side. That sort of thing won't do."

One morning as we were hurrying to break camp and get started, I ran into the tent to roll up our bedding. We girls slept in a little room curtained off from the main part of the tent. As I shook the blankets apart and began folding them, getting them ready to roll, something dropped from the one I was holding - a slim reddish-brown creature about three inches long, with many, many legs. It darted wildly about and crawled under a blanket. I screamed for Father. He came running, carrying the hatchet with which he happened to have been working. Uncle Isaac and the others followed him. Father pulled back the blanket, and when he saw the thing, he chopped it in two with the hatchet. I screamed anew, for the ends ran, one each way, trying, I thought, to find each other and join together again. Father mashed them into bits too small to wiggle and told us it was a centipede and it might have stung us badly. Though I knew it was probably the only one I should se, it was hard to go to bed for a long time. A centipede is a poor bedfellow and I always fancied one was crawling in to keep me company.

A few days later Florence awoke one morning and complained that her jaws were sore. Father looked at her when she came to breakfast and said, "So! You are taking your turn, are you?"

"I don't know what you mean," Florence answered.

"You will have to be my girl for sure for a while. If you haven't a nice case of mumps, I never saw one." Father went over and talked a moment with Uncle Isaac and Aunt Caroline. They all came back together and, after looking at Florence's jaws, decided it would be best for her to stay with us entirely until she was well. Little Eoline was the only one of us all who had not had the mumps and it was not necessary to expose her.

Florence slept with me at night and rode in our wagon, holding her poor sore jaws with her hands and trying hard not to feel the jar of the wagon. It was a poor time to choose for that ailment, and though we made her as comfortable as possible, she had some unhappy days. PRICKLY PEARS Among the families in the mule train which traveled with us was one which constantly aroused our sympathy and indignation. Mrs. Brown was a meek, worn-looking woman, who, I am sure, did not want to take that journey. She had four children, shrinking little creatures who seemed always frightened. The man was right who said, "If you want to know what a man is, through and through, travel with him in an emigrant train. He'll show himself up; there will be nothing left to find out."

Mr. Brown "showed himself up" to perfection. "He's the meanest man that ever lived," we children said. "No one could be meaner." He didn't disturb his neighbors very much; he took it all out on his family. If there was an exceptionally hard place to camp, he chose that spot. If anyone had to carry water a long distance, it was Mrs. Brown. The ground along the Platte River was covered with prickly pears, that wild, hardy cactus, the name of which describes it so well. If there was a spot where they grew in profusion, that spot was chosen for their camp. We were all so sorry for the poor little bare feet trying to pick their way through the awful thorns. How we wanted something to happen to make Mr Brown feel the discomfort he put on the others and perhaps see himself as others in the train saw him! One evening we got our wish.

As usual they camped in the worst spot to be found, where there were pears so thick that the children could not walk. Mrs. Brown hunted around for scraps of driftwood to make a fire; they never stopped to pick up bits of wood to carry along as the rest of us did, and Mr. Brown turned his mules loose to graze. Of course, they lay down and rolled where the prickly pears were thickest. When they got up, their coats were covered with them. One poor mule had one sticking to his tail. In trying to shake it off, he stuck himself with the thorns, then with mulish wisdom, he clamped that pear down against his body with his tail, and how he kicked and charged. He tore through the bunch of mules and, followed by all of Mr. Brown's other mules, raced for the prairie.

They nearly stampeded the train as they rushed, kicking and braying among the other animals. Fortunately the men were able to hold the other teams. Out they raced onto the plains, far away from the camp. Mr. Brown, very angry-looking, for everyone was laughing, had to start on foot for them. Of course, no one would lend him a horse to ride. He was still hunting his mules when we went to bed. I don't know when he found them. There was not a person in the train, I think, who was not delighted. After that I noticed, and I watched to see, that his family did not camp in a prickly pear patch.

HINTS OF TROUBLE

From time to time Indians came into our camp or rode past us as we traveled. We soon grew accustomed to seeing them. At first they came into our camps with a great show of friendliness, but as time went on, their actions changed. As we passed from Pawnee country into the land of the Sioux, we found them growing sullen.

Instead of a too-great desire to shake hands, they refused to talk. As their arrogance increased, I noticed the men gathering in groups in the evening, talking earnestly. The scout and Mr. Daily were usually in the center of these grave-looking groups. I noticed, too, that the small trains, which at first had camped with us only occasionally, now stayed with us all the time, or, as I heard a man say, joined some other big train. We grew to watching the hills across the Platte very steadily. It was from there that we feared a raid.

One evening the captain called all the men together to talk the matter over. It happened that they were grouped near our wagons and we heard the consultation. The scout was talking when Florence and I climbed onto the dashboard of a wagon in the seat of which Carrie was sitting.

"I learned today," Mr. George was saying, "that a bunch of whites evidently rebels, are hanging around them. They are stirring them up. We will have to travel more closely together and every man must keep his gun handy. Arm every boy who is big enough to handle a gun. Every gun counts if there is trouble." In one of the small trains traveling with us just then was a little pompous man who never stopped talking. He had made a joke of himself to us all. Now he was determined to be heard. The men talked steadily on planning their defense, and he tried again and again to gain the floor. "My modus operandi would be," he began, but no one heard him. "My modus operandi - " The men talked on. He strutted around to the other side of the group. "My modus operandi is - " still the men, their attention fixed on their leaders, did not hear him. Again and again he began, always in the same way, his chest puffed out, his lips pursed, as he stepped about trying to get a hearing. He was so funny that Carrie and Florence and I were almost in hysterics laughing. It was hard, too, when anything so funny was going on, to be quiet with our laughing.

"Oh," Carrie said, "I wish I could ask him if he learned that from the back of the spelling book." His "modus operandi" was not explained that evening, nor ever, to my knowledge. From time to time, all the way to Laramie, we saw the little man and he was always funny.

One evening a man came to our tent and asked, "Mr. Vanderburgh, may I use your telescope a moment? I think I see some buffalo across the river." Father brought out his glass and the man squinted through it. "Yes," he said, "there's quite a bunch." He handed back the glass.

Father looked a moment, then handed the telescope to one of the group that had gathered, eager for a glimpse of the first buffalo we had seen on the plains. We were ahead of the bison migration so we saw very few of them on the trip.^ "Wish I could get one," a man said. "It wouldn't take long and we'd like mighty well to get some meat."

Mr. Daily said, "No, it won't do. We can't risk hunting now. The Indians are not acting right."

As the glass was passing from one to another, the men trying to determine the size of the herd, the funny pompous little man who's "modus operandi" we had never learned, strutted up. "Just let me have a look," he said. "I can count them if any man can."

He put his eye to the glass, the other eye squinted shut, and began to count, "One, two, three." A man who was holding the cap of the telescope slipped it over the end of the glass. Undisturbed the little man counted, "Four, five, six. There's some more coming over the hill." He dropped the glass and the man slipped the cap out of sight. "Did you fellows see that big bunch or were you too blind?" He began to count again and the man slipped the cap back. "Seven, eight, nine," he went on. The men crowded around, complimenting him on his eyesight, all the time keeping the lens carefully covered. Overjoyed at being the center of attraction, he continued counting the buffalo and describing them to the highly entertained group about him. Twenty-five or more he saw. At last he handed the glass to Father, saying, "Call me any time you want someone with eyes," and well satisfied with himself, he strutted away, the only man who could see more than five buffalo. AN INDIAN'S BREAKFAST At night now, when we camped, we always corralled the wagons. They were arranged in a big circle, the tongue of each wagon run under the rear of the wagon ahead to form a stockade. The tents were set up inside the circle, and after the horses had grazed as long as possible, they were tied to the wagon wheels, outside usually; but if there seemed any danger, inside of the corral. With guards set outside, we felt safe.

After we had finished breakfast one morning, Mother was packing our lunch while Tom and Chris rolled up the tent. She had baked a big pan of biscuits which were to be the major portion of our noon meal that day. I was supposed to be putting away the dishes but was too busy watching a big Indian to work very fast.

He was going from tent to tent saying something to each group. Wherever he went he was received with a shake of the head and an evident refusal of some request. His face was growing more and more sullen. We had camped that night a little apart from the rest of the wagons and our party was the last to be approached. He had been refused by every other family, all of whom had been too busy to give him time or attention.

As he came to us he pointed to Mother's biscuits and said, "How! Indian hungry."

"Give him his breakfast, Emily," Father said, and Mother filled a tin plate with the biscuits and set a plate of leftover hotcakes and a can of sorghum molasses on the oilcloth that was still spread on the ground for a tablecloth.

After pouring molasses over the biscuits, he squatted on the ground with the plate in his hand and began to eat, while we children stood around and watched him. Though he ate with his fingers, we were surprised to see how nicely he did it. He wasn't mussy, but such an amount as he ate! We watched him with wonder. He finished the biscuits and the pile of hot cakes, then pointed to the pan of bread, which Mother, thinking he might want more, had not put away. She set the pan before him and he ate and ate until all the bread for lunch, a lunch for ten people, too, was gone except two biscuits. Then he looked at Mother and pointed at the biscuits.

"Papoose hungry," he said. "Take to papoose?"

Mother said, "Yes, take it if you want to."

He broke open a biscuit, poured molasses over it, opened the front of his dirty buckskin shirt and thrust it inside.

Then he pointed to the other biscuit and said, "Squaw hungry."

"Yes," Mother nodded. "Take it too." A second molasses-covered biscuit went inside his shirt against his brown body.

Then he rose, gave a pull at his buckskin trousers and said, "Thank you. Good."

He looked around for Father, who was now waiting for him to go so we could follow the train, which was beginning to move away. He shook Father's hand and Mother's, then looked around at us children.

"Your papooses?" he asked. "Indian see all?"

Father said, "Yes, they are all mine," and pointed us out to him, including Florence as his little girl. He shook us all by the hands, even little Charlie. He looked at us all sharply again as if he meant to remember us. Once more he said, "Thank you. Good," and went to where a pony was grazing.

We had to build a fire at noon that day and we laughed a good deal about our short rations and the delicious lunch the squaw and papoose were to have. We didn't envy them those biscuits.

Little did we dream, however, of the importance to us of having gained the favor of that dirty Sioux warrior. It was not the last time we were to see him. A SCARE The road wound along the Platt, generally within sight of the river, though occasionally the stream was hidden by sand hills. One day in those rolling hills occurred an incident which was to me, perhaps to us all, the most alarming event of our long journey.

Father's team chanced to be leading the train. About noon we drove into a valley perhaps a half mile in width and two miles in length. The valley bottom was grassy and we found a good pool of water. Father stopped and turned his horses loose to graze. The other drivers did likewise, but instead of driving up and joining the head wagons as they usually did, for some reason that day they stopped with the train stretched out along the road for a mile or more.

The grazing horses moved quietly past us out into the valley. Derby and Prince were farthest away, but followed closely by our other horses and the rest of the teams. It was a quiet, beautiful little valley surrounded by sand hills on which was a sparse growth of sage bushes and other low shrubbery.

While we were eating our lunch Win said, "I wonder what those Indians are doing out there."

We looked and Father went for his glass. We often saw Indians riding around us as we traveled, but the actions of these were unusual. Three Indians were riding furiously back and forth, perhaps a half mile away, first riding one way, wheeling sharply and riding back as hard as possible, only to turn and repeat the performance. Presently two more rode down the hillside and all five continued the strange actions.

Father looked at them carefully. "They seem to be just riding," he said, but he was plainly puzzled. "There's not enough of them to bother about," he decided and we went on with our lunch, though still watching the red men wonderingly.

At last one of the Indians left the group and came toward our camp. As he rode up, Father asked, "What are you doing out there?"

"Catch dog," he said and rode past us along the line of wagons.

Father looked again with his glass. "There's no dog there." He turned to the group nearest us. "I don't like the way those Indians are acting," he said. "That rascal lied to me just now, too."

"We'd better tell the folks to look out," a man said and someone sprang onto a horse and rode back with a warning. Some of the wagons had not yet come through the hills into the valley.

The Indian who had been riding past the emigrants as they were quietly eating their noonday meal turned at last and rode swiftly back toward the others who had stopped and were apparently waiting for him.

As he reached them one of the Indians waved his arm. Instantly such a commotion as broke out on that hillside I cannot describe. From the brow of the hill rushed an Indian pony with two long poles tied to his collar and dragging on the ground behind. He was loaded from his ears to the ends of the poles with dried dearskins, tin cans, pans, - everything an Indian could find or devise to rattle or clang. Behind the pony, beating him to make him run and yelling at the tops of their lungs, came a band of Indians. Instantly the whole hillside seemed alive with Indians. They seemed to spring from behind every bush and rock, and shrieking and howling they raced toward us. Our hearts stood still. If our horses stampeded, we were done.

As I said before, our English hunters were nearer the Indians than the other teams. Father seized his gun and started quietly among the horses, which were fast becoming excited, calling as usual, "Come, Derby come Prince, we want you. Come on Derby, come." The two horses were looking with quiet interest toward the Indians, but when they heard Father's voice, they turned as usual and whinnying and answer, trotted obediently to him. Our other teams followed them closely through the hundreds of horses that were fast becoming frantic. Instead of stampeding, however, when our horses trotted so quietly to Father, the whole band turned and moved back to the wagons. They were quickly caught, every horse and mule, quieted and fastened. The coolness of one team had saved them all.

The Indians, hundreds, thousands it seemed to me, their faces wildly painted, each feather headdress erect, rode furiously toward us, yelling madly.

As they neared us I heard Uncle Isaac's voice shout to Father, "John, you get that chief!" Farther off, another voice commanded, "Get your guns! Every man pick your Indian. Don't waste a shot!"

When they came within gunshot the Indians faced a line ready and waiting. Every man and boy in the train stood with a gun in his hands.

The yelling ceased. The chief, suddenly smiling, rode forward saying, "How! How! Friends, no shoot! How." The others followed now, all smiling and offering their hands to be shaken.

Father and Uncle Isaac shook the big chief's hand when he held it out saying, "Friend, no shoot!"

"We couldn't tell that from your actions," Uncle Isaac said. "Why are you doing this way?"

The Indians gave no satisfactory answer, but rode about, smiling at us all. Finally they wheeled their horses and raced back to the hills. It was a lucky day for us when Father bought Derby and Prince. AN ANTELOPE One evening after our camp had been made we saw an antelope perhaps a half mile away trotting about attracted by the strange wagon train. Fresh meat was much needed at that time, as a number of people were ill. Of course our vegetables had given out long since, and everyone was growing weary of bacon, ham, beans, rice, dried fruit and biscuits. The poor sick people, it seemed, could not eat at all.

Father got his gun. "I'm going to get that antelope," he said.

Several men laughed. "I'd like to see you get close enough to hit it," they jeered.

Father did not answer, but called Blucher the big stallion. Leading the horse, he walked slowly toward the animal, which, inquisitive as the little creatures are, was much interested in Blucher. Father edged the horse closer and closer across the half circle of level land, keeping it between himself and the antelope, which circled about ever coming nearer in its investigations. Finally, thinking the distance about fifty yards, he fired. The horse jumped wildly and I wondered why Father had not taken Derby who would have stood still. When Father stepped off the distance as he went to the antelope, he found that in the clear air he could not judge distance at all. He had shot one hundred and fifty yards, a remarkable shot for that day of the muzzle-loading rifle.

Father was a wonderful marksman. It was said he never missed. Before we had left Iowa he had long been barred from shooting matches, because he never missed the marks and always carried away the prizes.

When he brought the antelope into camp, he found a group to meet him, many admiring his skill and talking of the shot he had made; others anxious for a piece of the meat.

I heard a man say, "Mr. Vanderburgh, I'm ashamed to ask for it, but my mother is so sick. We haven't a thing she can eat. Couldn't I get just a little piece for her?"

Another said, "My wife hasn't been able to eat anything for days. I'm afraid we'll never get her across if I can't get something she can eat." And so it went. Among so many people, numbers were finding the trip too hard. Father kept enough of the meat to give us each a taste, and every other bite went to sick people. Grateful people they were, too, for that little change helped to put many of them on their feet again.

For days we traveled in sight of two great rocks across the Platte. Table Rock, we called one, and Court House Rock, the other. Great piles of stone they were, like huge castles. It seemed we would never pass them.

We older children thought it very funny to watch little Darius try to carry out a self-imposed task. Scarcely would our wagons stop in the evenings before he would be out gathering fuel for Aunt Emmy, as we called Mrs. Joe Acker, though she wasn't really our aunt. Bits of wood, buffalo chips, anything he thought would burn, were carried to her. She always accepted the gifts graciously and he didn't know that she burned only the wood. Little wood was left long in that treeless country, though we occasionally picked up an empty box or scrap of board. Here and there beside the road were broken or discarded wagons. Broken wheels or tongues were sometimes seen. It was a good outfit that stood up on the whole of that long trail.

One day we saw a wagon we had seen before leaving Iowa. It seemed in good condition but stood forlornly alone, dingy and gray. Its smartly painted sign still proclaimed, "Pike's Peak or Bust," but beneath the sign was now scrawled another, "Busted, by Jingo!" We wondered much what fate had met the party, but Father thought that very likely the wagon had been used to carry extra provisions and had been discarded when empty. FT LARAMIE More and more as we went on, we talked of Fort Laramie, the halfway station on the trail, a place where repairs could be made or needed supplies purchased. Here, too, Chris and Tom were to leave us and we were to go on unaided, just our family in three wagons.

So many tales we had heard of the Fort, the haven it had been to the pioneers, and the protection it now offered the emigrants, that we awaited eagerly this break in our travel. It never occurred to us to call ourselves pioneers; too many had been over that trail before; too deeply was it worn.

When at last we drove up to the Fort, we gazed about with interest. People, people, and more people! It seemed to me like the crowds we had seen in the cities left behind. Soldiers swarmed about, looking each train over, perhaps to see a friend; emigrants were preparing busily for further travel; traders bustled about their business, and Indians and more Indians, all a weaving mass of seeming confusion.

Part of our train left us there and we never saw them again. Many took the California Trail, which branched off at that point. Among these were Chris and Tom. Though so many left us, an equal number joined us and we went on with our train little changed in size.

Most of the men went into the Fort, and I wished that I were a boy so that I might have gone with Father and Winfield. It was very interesting, though, to watch the people while we waited for them to return. We were to stay but a few hours, for we were, as ever, anxious to press on.

While we were eating our lunch, we children almost too busy watching to crowds to eat, I saw a wonderfully dressed Indian coming toward us, followed by a squad of warriors. His face looked familiar.

"Haven't we seen him before?" I asked, nodding toward the Indian.

Win looked at him for a moment. "He's the one who ate all our lunch that day," he said. "What a change!"

We stared at him in amazement. Instead of the dirty trousers and greasy shirt, here was a brilliantly clad Sioux Chief. His creamy-white buckskin suit was ornamented with beads, porcupine quills and fringe. His feather headdress reached to his heels. He was the finest specimen of a well-clad Indian I ever saw.

When he saw that we were eating, he very courteously stopped and with the other Indians, evidently his staff, waited until we were through.

As we arose from our meal, he came up to us saying, "How, how," and smiling in such a friendly way that I could not help liking him. I surely liked his clothes. The buckskin was so white; the beads glittered so brightly, and that wonderful headdress! A Sioux Chief's regalia is truly magnificent.

He shook hands with Father and Mother and Winfield and me, then with each of the little boys. Carrie was standing on the wagon tongue putting away some things. She did not like Indians and did not want to shake his hand. She knew he was waiting and she worked and worked and would not turn around. Patiently he stood there, dignified and friendly-looking, and the line of keen-eyed warriors looked us over and over as if they meant to remember us. At last Carrie knew that he would stay there until she turned, so she sprang down from the wagon tongue and took his hand.

"Other papoose? Little girl?" he asked.

Father remembered that Florence had been with us that other morning, so he pointed to where she was with her family.

He walked over, magnificent Chief that he was, followed by his staff, and to the wide-eyed amazement of the Acker family, the rest of whom he ignored entirely, he strode up to Florence and said, "How, little girl." He shook her hand with great formality and politeness, the keen-eyed warriors looking at her as they had looked at us.

He came back and said to Father, "Want fresh meat?"

Father said, "Yes."

"Go one day." He pointed to the road. "Before sunrise, go one mile to the right." He pointed to show the direction. "Three gullies meet. Big spring. Elk drink - daylight. Go. Kill elk." He talked partly by signs, partly in English and partly in a dialect that Father knew.

After a few minutes he very politely left us followed by the other Indians. Very impressive they looked as they stalked away.

"Entertaining royalty, this time," Win said. "What does it mean?"

"It might mean a good deal," said a soldier who had been standing by looking on with interest "That Sioux Chief is the biggest man in these parts, head of the whole Sioux nation. If they should go on the war path, you might have a worse man for a friend."

When father was preparing to follow the Chief's directions and go for the elk, he met with violent opposition from the other men. "I tell you he is just trying to get you where he can kill you. It won't do. It isn't safe to go."

"No," Father said, "that Indian won't injure me. He was playing straight."

"You'll never get back," he was told.

"Yes, I will, and be pretty apt to bring some meat with me, too."

With the men still objecting, almost compelling him to stay, Father left the camp. He followed the Indian's directions and at sunrise was hidden in a beautiful spot overlooking a big spring where, as he had been told, three little grassy valleys united. Many animals, antelope, deer and other creatures were stealing down to the watering place.

Finally a drove of elk appeared. Father selected a large one, aimed and fired. The animal fell, a bullet through its heart. Before he could reload his gun, all the other animals had fled.

When he came back to the camp there was no difficulty in getting men to go with him for the meat. The Indian had kept faith and they were no longer afraid.

An elk is a big animal, but we had very little of that one. There were too many people whose need was greater than ours.

THE LITTLE ANTELOPE

A few days later when we stopped at noon beside a spring, we found a forlorn party already there. The outfit consisted of two wagons carrying a man and his wife, his young sister, two children and a hired man. All were sick, too sick to travel, so sick in fact that they had dropped out of a train and stayed behind to die.

The girl and the hired man were able to move about a little; the babies were mere skeletons. For three days they had been steadily growing weaker and all hope of reaching Oregon was gone. Dysentery is a terrible thing when it attacks an emigrant party.

Father fed their horses and he and Mother got out our medicine box to try to help them. He filled a saucer with brandy and placed a lump of sugar and a lump of mutton tallow on a fork. Then he set the brandy afire and held the sugar and the mutton tallow in the flame. They both melted and dripped down into the burning brandy. At last nothing was left but a brown syrup-like substance in the saucer. This was the medicine. That and some other remedies and some food were taken to the sick people. Then we left them as comfortable as Father and Mother could make them.

Later we learned from one of the scouts who were continually passing from train to train carrying news of the road that they following day they were so much improved that they joined another train. Later still we learned that they reached Oregon safely.

One day as Father was hunting, hoping to get some fresh meat, he found a little antelope fawn crouching in some brush. He petted the tiny spotted creature and it followed him into camp. We were delighted and wanted to keep the little playful thing. Father told us that as we had no milk we could not possibly do so. It must go back to its mother. All the evening we played with it, the pretty little animal following us about, a delightful pet. Every child in the train wanted to pat its head and play with it, for never was there a more winning little creature.

The next morning Father took it out onto the prairie to leave it where its