THE BIG SANDY

One night after supper, Father got his gun. "It's my turn for guard duty," he said. "I don't much like the man who is on the beat with me, either. He went to sleep once when on guard. I'll have to do his job and mine too, very likely."

The wagons, of course, were corralled in a big circle with the horses inside. At intervals around the outside were stationed guards, each to watch over a certain section of the stockade formed by the wagons.

Father was slowly walking along his beat, his loaded gun in his hands that night, when something moving caught his eye. Hunched over like an Indian in a blanket, someone was slipping toward him. He shouted "Halt!" but the man moved on. Why he did not shoot, Father said he did not know, but even in the darkness something told him the man was not an Indian. A second time he spoke and the man straightened up and asked, "What is the matter?"

"Matter enough!" Father said. "Come with me." It was the man who had been put on guard duty near Father's beat. He had been walking in his sleep.

Father marched him through the camp to Mr. Daily's tent and roused Mr. Daily. "This man is not responsible, Mr. Daily," he said. "Don't put him on guard again. If he doesn't get the train into trouble, someone will kill him. He had a mighty close call this time." He told of his sleep-walking.

THE DESERT

Long before daylight one morning, we filled every available water carrier not filled the night before, and trailed off through the weird darkness, the only time but one that we broke camp before daylight. We were starting across a desert, seventy miles without water. In two days we were to cross, thirty-five miles a day, fifteen miles farther than our average distance. It was to be two long and terrible drives for horses as worn and thin as ours. Only a bit of grass, mowed and carried with us, we had to feed them those two days. Out upon the lava beds we rumbled, the hollow, echoing, metallic roar sounding as if we were upon a great bridge. At daylight there lay around us a gray and desolate waste.

"Did ever horses go so fast?" Florence gasped as we ran breathlessly along the rocky road trying to overtake the teams. We had tried walking but could not keep up with the horses.

"I don't believe they ever did," I answered. "We never drove like this before." At last a wagon waited for us and Uncle Isaac told us to stay in it. On no other days did they ever drive the horses at a trot.

Many skulls of big-horned sheep lay about on the lava bed. It must have been a good hunting ground, for no place else did we ever see many. Here and there we saw them set on piles of rocks and often names were written on them. They made wild-looking landmarks.

The road, though winding around hummocks, was in the main nearly straight. At noon we stopped but a few minutes for lunch, gave the horses a handful of the dried grass and a swallow of water, and then hastened on. We camped late that night, worn out from the long drive, but were up again before daylight. They were hard days, those two.

The following night, after dark, we reached water. At the foot of a mountain was a little trickling stream. The captain ordered the water vessels filled before the horses drank. It was necessary to hoard that water; there was so little there. The next good spring was 15 miles away. Very carefully the water was guarded to leave the stream clear for the cattle train, the bushwhackers who were following behind us.

After our camps were made and the horses watered, the cattle train arrived. We left the spring to them. Instead of using care with the water they immediately turned the oxen loose to drink. Three hundred or more cattle trampled and fought over the water and far into the night their bellowing was hideous. Neither the people nor the cattle had much use of that spring. I don't know what they would have done had not Mr. Daily set a guard over a tiny hill that trickled down the hillside above where the cattle could climb. All the drinking water they had they got there. It was well for us that Mr. Daily had told us to fill our water casks.

Fifteen miles of travel the next day took us to another spring. Here we rested for the remainder of the day. The cattle train passed us and we hoped once more that we were rid of them.

THE CONFEDERATE FLAG

The third of July we made our camp at the foot of the Bannock Mountains. Here in a circular valley was a regular camp ground where every train cut a few more trees for the ring of campfires that were built around the camps in the center, always making the spot a little safer from Indian attack. The next day we were not to travel but to rest our horses. We were always glad for those rest days; they came so seldom. Our camp was spoiled to me, however, for here in the beautiful circle we found the cattle train. It was hard to endure them, to find the stream of water trampled and dirty, as well as all the other annoyances they could devise. "They will go on tomorrow and we will be rid of them for a day or two," we hoped once more and felt relieved at the prospect.

The next morning, however, we found a new scheme to anger us. Very early in the morning they left, but hanging from a flagpole that they had erected in the night was a Confederate flag. An angry group of men surrounded the pole when Florence and I ran out of our tent. One man had started to chop it down.

Mr. Daily was talking, "It's hard to take, boys, but we have to get this train through. The Snake Indians are yet to be passed and we can't weaken ourselves in a battle with these people. If a lot of you fellows were killed, what could we do with the families? They have to come first. The train must go through. Let the flag alone."

It was hard for northern eyes to see that flag flying, but there it stayed all that day. When we left the next morning it still hung from the top of the pole.

Just before we started Win said, "Drive my team, won't you, Philura? I'm not ready to go."

"Not ready!" I said, "Why not?"

"Never mind, I'll catch up." He and Henry ran away and I could not see them when we started.

After a while Win climbed up beside me. "We fixed their old flag," he said; "chopped it down into the fire."

"That's good!" I said. "I'm glad you did, but won't you get into trouble."

"I don't know," he answered, "but the flag is down."

Even though I was glad to hear that, I couldn't help feeling a little anxious. Captain Daily had been very emphatic.

Early in the morning before we had started I had seen the men of the train gathered around Mr. Daily. Later in the day Father told us why the captain had called them together. A message had come that the Snake Indians were on the war path. They were even more to be feared, he said, than the Sioux; they were more treacherous.

ANXIOUS DAYS

That day and the next one, crossing the Bannock Mountains, we experienced the hardest traveling that we found on that long trip from Iowa to Oregon. Even the lava desert had been easier, for there the road had been comparatively level. Here, though the wagons were lightened every pound that could be removed, the horses struggled with difficulty up the bed of a mountain stream.

As far as possible, the captain had ordered, we were to make no noise. Slipping along the mountain road, guards ahead, guards behind, guards in the woods on either side of us, all that day we walked. We children were afraid to speak above whispers. Night came on before we reached the summit of the mountains.

In the darkness not a fire was built, nor a match lighted, and we made our camp for a second time in the wagons. From that mountaintop fires could be seen from a great distance. Someone gave us food; someone brought us water, and we crept into bed, all the women and children. Not a man, I think, in the whole train but stood guard that night. So silent were we that we did not know were the nearest wagon was stationed. Not a child whimpered and, strangely enough, not a horse neighed.

The next morning, since we were still without fires, whatever food was available was passed around, and just as the black of night was changing to gray, the teams were hitched to the wagons and we started down the mountain.

We had crossed the higher Rockies with only distant peaks to tell us we had reached the dividing of the waters. That day, however, we found mountain travel of a kind of which we had not dreamed. For several hours we wound along a nearly level road, the descent being very gradual. About ten o'clock we reached a place where the road abruptly leaves the mountain, "the jumping-off place," we children called it, a fearful piece of road to traverse.

We stopped on the brow of the hill to prepare for the descent. Four-horse teams were divided, as the leaders can not hold back. Long ropes were tied to the axles of the wagons. Trees were cut and tied by the tops to drag on the ground behind.

"My team can hold this wagon," one man told the others. "These trees are enough, I don't need a rope."

"They can't do it. No team can hold a wagon on that last pitch," I heard an answer.

"They'll make it all right. I'm going on." Though others tried to dissuade him, he started down the hill.

"We'll pick you up when we get there," someone called after him.

Other wagons followed, their wheels locked, weighted by the cumbersome trees, and held in addition by long lines of braced and straining men. In spite of the efforts of the men at the ropes, it looked as if the wagons would surely pitch over onto the horses. Wagon after wagon was lowered in this way to the foot of the incline. A full half day was required to move the train a short half mile.

When after watching numbers of wagons pass we ran on down the hill, we found at the bottom the man who had scorned the ropes. He was at the bottom; there was no doubt of that, but that last and steepest pitch had a turn that must be followed to avoid disaster. It led to a level valley floor and solid ground. If it were not followed, a marshy quagmire made a soft landing place. Hopelessly mired in the swamp rested the wagon and horses, right side up and uninjured, but there for all time unless helped to dry land.

I did not envy the man the chaffing he received as outfit after outfit reached the foot of the incline and added its trees to the huge pile already there.

After the last wagon was down someone asked the man, "Do you want a rope now? Perhaps you'd rather swim a while longer, though!"

"Good place you chose to land," another said, "There's nothing like mud for cushions."

Unmercifully they guyed him. It did not pay a man to be too independent and knowing. He had little to say as they fastened ropes to his outfit, hitched horses to the ropes and pulled him out of the mire.

Greatly relieved that the strain was over, we drove around the foot of the mountain a short distance to a good camping spot. The day was not spent, but the captain

BUSHWACKERS AGAIN

As we came in sight of the camping ground we saw something that did not please us. The bushwhackers were there. Of necessity we camped near them. Always they were a sullen, disagreeable crowd that we avoided as much as possible, but that afternoon they were worse than ever.

Scarcely were our tents pitched when the men of the train slouched into our camp muttering threats of "shooting" and "cleaning out the train."

Mr. Daily listened to them awhile, watching them closely and in silence. They grew more and more blustering and threatening. At last he said to some of them, "Just what do you want? What is the matter with you?"

The bushwhackers crowded closer and our men, sensing trouble, drew near also. "We're goin' to clean out this train," they blustered, "Cut down our flag, ye did! You'll pay fer it. We'll beat the life out o' ye."

"We'll git a lot o' ye!" They went on with more talk of killing and shooting up the crowd. Their manner was so ugly and their threats so dreadful that I was thoroughly alarmed. We had many more men than they but I did not want any of our people to be hurt.

Mr. Daily turned to his party. "Get your guns, men, every one. We have had enough of this." Then to the bushwhackers, he added:

"We have had all we will take from you. You have gone far enough."

Our men were soon back. Armed and ready they awaited the next move. That move, however, was not the one we expected.

The bushwhackers looked at the guns. While we stared in amazement, they turned and slunk back to their wagons. Heads hanging, they sat on the wagon tongues, whipped, beaten.

Finally one man whined, "We'd fight if we had any guns."

"Any guns!" For a moment words seemed to fail Mr. Daily. "Any guns!" At last he went on: "You've held onto us all though the Indian country, safe where you could not have defended yourselves. And you! Every mean, contemptible thing you could devise to make life miserable for us! A fine sort you are! Listen to this: From now on, you get behind our train and stay out of our way. We'll have no more smartness from you!" More he said, much more, to the great delight of us all. His speech was a great satisfaction to at least a part of his audience.

The next morning we passed their train, this time silent, and we had no further trouble with them; in fact, we never saw them again. We learned later that they were a band of border ruffians who had carried on guerilla warfare until captured by Union soldiers. They had been set across the Missouri River and disarmed that they might not by joining the Indians cause more trouble. It was well for the South to be rid of them, but they were a poor type of people for the new country to which they were going.

THE PONTOON BRIDGE Our long line of wagons, now brown-topped and dingy, trailing through the sagebrush did not much resemble the shining white train which had stepped off so smartly through the green grass of the Missouri Valley months before. Neither did the ferry which carried us over the Snake River much resemble the big steam ferry which carried us over the Missouri.

One day we reached a smaller stream crossed by a pontoon bridge in which logs were used for pontoons. We stopped, planning to spend a day there to rest our horses and give the people a chance to do laundry work and make needed repairs.

"A good chance to wash some bedding," Mother said. It was very hard to keep our bedding nice. Try as we would always to pitch our tents in clean spots and always to air and shake the blankets carefully, they grew more and more dingy. I wonder how the people who traveled in the dust of the later summer managed to care for theirs.

While Mother was looking over the bedding, the boys got out some fishing tackle and to our joy were soon catching big beautiful trout from a foot to eighteen inches in length.

Almost before our camp was made, however, we were repacking, preparing to go on. A man who had a sutler's camp beside the river near where we stopped was quarreling with an Indian when we arrived. Suddenly the Indian began to scream. I saw him holding up his arm, from which blood was streaming. The man, who had been drinking, had stuck him with a knife. He jumped on a horse and rode away, still holding up his arm and screaming. As he passed over a mound by the river and away into the sagebrush, the captain sent a message for the train to go on. The affair might cause trouble with the Indians.

Win and Henry put their fish into the wagon. "Drive for me, won't you, Philura?" Win said. "I'll get a few more." Every one was disappointed; we needed those fish so badly. A change in our diet was rare in those days. Bread, beans, dried peas, bacon, ham and dried fruit over and over; no wonder we wanted something new. After what seemed a long time the boys caught up with us. A long chase they had had after the wagons, but they brought a dozen more big trout with them.

BOISE

Father was anxious to reach Boise. We had one team now that we did not need. Of course the horse feed had been used long since, and as we had used our provisions, the loads had slowly grown lighter.

When at last we reached the town the sight of houses, people, and so many new faces was a real event to us. Boise was a mining town, a town where Father was not anxious to keep his family long. I heard him saying so when a group of miners wanted him to go back along the trail to look for a mine.

Near the Big Sandy, Father had broken from a ledge some pieces of ore and dropped them into his pocket. He showed them to some miners and immediately the men were interested. Would he go back and show them the place? It would pay him well. They argued long but Father would not consider leaving us in Boise. As well as he could he described the place where he had found the ore. I remember the party of young men who had joined the train the evening we did; nearly all went back to look for gold. Later we heard of a rich mine located in that neighborhood and wondered if Father had missed a fortune by not going back. As we also heard of groups of miners being killed by the Indians, we did not waste much time in regrets.

Many of our party left us in Boise, some to stay there, others to scatter far. From that point on, people continually dropped out of the train. Not all, like us, were seeking the Pacific.

Father sold three horses and a wagon at Boise and bought a riding pony. We now had two wagons, one of them drawn by three horses, which Win and Carrie took turns at driving. It was fun to have the pony to ride, and as Florence's father allowed her to ride one of his horses sometimes, we felt we had riches. As we were getting out of the country, too, where trouble might be expected from the Indians, when our turns with the horses came we often left the train far behind.

Once when we were riding ahead, I saw something shining in the road. I slid from my horse to pick it up. It was a little polished, sharp-pointed weapon, a Spanish stiletto, Father said when we rode back to show it to the others and to find out what it was. Of course they laughed at me as usual for seeing everything, but what would be the use of taking a trip like that and not keep one's eyes open? My collection had to be sorted from time to time and many things discarded. There were so many strange and interesting things to be picked up. The men in the train were more interested than I, however, in the vicious-looking little stiletto.

On all the hundreds of miles we had traveled from Iowa, there had not been in our train one real accident. The nearest had been the man who was stuck in the mud at the foot of the Bannock Mountains. One day, however, we passed a spot at the foot of a hill where on a turn the road sloped sideways. The place was not bad at all; the leading wagons passed it almost without notice. yet when one man made the turn, he rolled his wagon over, completely. Bottom side up it lay, his family underneath.

Much frightened, others ran to his assistance. The wagon was righted and the family picked up, entirely unhurt. When the team was untangled they went on quite as well off as before.

While traveling through the Blue Mountains we came upon a never-to-be- forgotten treat. Ripe huckleberries grew in profusion. Never before did fruit taste so good. For nearly four months we had eaten no fresh fruit and now to find those berries growing all about us was something to be remembered. Fresh raw berries, sauce, pies - we could not eat enough to satisfy our craving.

I remember seeing one man take his first bite of huckleberry pie. He made a grand leap from his seat on the ground, cracked his heels together and shouted, "Dipend alive! If I don't be jumped up if that ain't good pie!" One would have to be an emigrant to know how good it was.

INDIAN WAYS

The dress of the Indians was a never-ending source of entertainment to us. The familiar costume of the Pawnees of the Kansas Plains, moccasins, breechclouts and blankets, we saw wherever we saw Indians. The wonderful feather headdresses of the Sioux, or the glittering beadwork of the western tribes, were varied at times, often with striking results. Whatever articles of clothing an Indian had, he wore.

Walking in the road ahead of us one day were three Indians. One was dressed in the regulation Indian style, but I'm sure he must have felt envious of the others, one of whom displayed above his moccasins a soldier's long dress coat. Bare-legged and shirtless he was a funny figure. The other's costume we liked better yet. On his head was a high top hat; about his neck was a stiff white celluloid collar but no shirt, then a breechclout and moccasins. Very proud and important they looked as they stalked along, unconscious of the laughter they caused.

More than one little girl we saw in clothing of strange materials. Big, bright-colored silk handkerchiefs were very popular. Sewed together they made a costume worthy of any chief's daughter. At one camp we saw a wonderfully clad little girl, a child of perhaps ten years. None of the white man's finery save masses of beads was used to deck this little princess. Around her head was a glittering beaded band. Flashing earrings reached her shoulders. Her fringed dress of creamy buckskin was ornamented in beautiful, strange designs, all of sparkling beads. On her feet were the most exquisite beaded moccasins imaginable, the prettiest little things I had ever seen. Much I longed for a pair like them, though I really didn't envy the little maid. So loaded was she, so weighted with beads, that without help she couldn't carry them. Bead chains graduated in length from her neck to her ankles, the longest chain being a string of sleigh bells. That costume was probably the pride of the tribe. Very carful of the little girl they were too. It was well that she didn't have to carry that weight alone. We were so delighted with her that we were called many times before we heeded and had to run to overtake the wagons.

At another Indian camp a mother proudly displayed her two little boys. She had dressed them like white children, had made them some trousers. Evidently she had used a pattern. The trousers were sewed to waistbands and the seams on the outside of the legs were sewed, but that was all. With the other necessary seams neglected, the little trousers flapped gaily. The proud mother did not know how funny they looked.

Some of the Indians left very pleasant memories. One morning while Mother was getting breakfast and the children playing about, I saw an Indian riding toward the camp. Tall and straight he looked on a beautiful horse that gleamed lack in the high yellow grass. One hand he carried across his breast, evidently holding some object with great care. As he came closer he looked about at the different groups of children. At last he rode toward Darius, who had stopped his play to watch him.

The little fellow drew back shyly as he came closer, but the Indian called to him saying, "Here, little boy, take this."

As Darius hesitated, looking at him uncertainly, he leaned far down from his horse and said, "Poor bird. Take it, little boy."

Darius started toward him eagerly and took from his hand a robin, a robin with a broken wing.

Delightedly the little boy, always the friend of every animal, cuddled the bird, cooing to it and holding it against his cheek. The big Indian sat back on his horse for a moment, watching him and smiling. Then throwing up his hands as if in a salute, he said, "Good," laughed a little as if well pleased and rode away through grass so high as to reach well up on the sides of his horse. That Indian and his gift were not among the things to be forgotten.

Poor little Darius; try as we would to care for the bird we could not save its life, and when it died a few days later, he was heartbroken.

"We have plenty of men we can depend upon," Mr. Daily said, "I'll send you another man."

Though in a way traveling was not very pleasant those days, it was delightful to leave the Platte River and follow along the Sweetwater where the Oregon Trail now led us. This was one of the loveliest regions I ever saw. The road in places touched the edge of high cliffs, where far below the beautiful stream sparkled. In one place Father and I went to the rim of the cliff to look down at the river. Some men from the train were walking through the canyon, and very tiny they looked in the distance. As I ran along the cliff, happy in the beauty of the spot, right on the brink of the gorge I found something that frightened me.

"Father," I called, "someone has been killed here." Father looked at a pool of blood I had found. "No," he said, "it isn't as bad as it looks. Someone has killed an antelope." His explanations often made terrors seem commonplace.

So gradual had been the rise of land as we traveled westward that it was hard to realize that we were in the Rocky Mountains. When we went through South Pass, the greatest elevation we were to reach, the land did not seem high. The country was open, rolling prairies, but in the distance a few peaks showed their snowy heads. Otherwise we might still have been on the lowland plains.

At the Big Sandy River we camped in a beautiful spot, a grassy hollow left green by the waters of melted snows. Fresh grass, willows, flowers, such as we had not seen for many a day, grew in profusion along the stream banks. Overjoyed at the wonder of the lovely place, we children wandered far up the river. We had no thought of danger, though I wonder that we were not afraid. We had passed fresh graves since leaving Fort Laramie, graves that, so scouts told us, had been made by soldiers from the Fort - the graves of people killed by the Indians. Unheeding, careless of what might happen to us, we rambled on that evening until dusk was falling. We were to remember that walk and shiver, fearful to think of what might have happened.

The next morning, loath to leave the lovely spot, we forded the river which we children had waded so many times the evening before and went on. Not all of the Oregon Trail was a joy to travel. We were not soon to forget that camp ground; a tragedy was to make it memorable.

The following day a man passed us, riding west. The news he brought was one of those stories that chill the blood of the emigrant. A big train that was following us one day behind, a train of which we had heard frequent reports by the scouts along the trail, had camped in the same spot on the Big Sandy where we had been the previous night. The Indians had fallen upon them and massacred them. Of about three hundred people, the soldiers from the Ford had found two living. One of these, a young girl, had been left by the savages for dead, left lying on her face with an arrow in her back. The other, a boy of eight or ten, had crawled into the sagebrush and hidden from the Indians.

We were a serious-faced party after that, nor did we children stray far from camp again until we were far out of the Indian country. Why had our train escaped? Was our turn coming? Our camps were better guarded after that; a more careful lookout was maintained.

Day after day we passed graves freshly dug by the soldiers and weighted with stones to protect them from marauding animals. They were the graves of people killed by the Indians, mute evidence of the red man's anger. Day and night we dreaded an attack. Hastening on, however, we at length left the Sioux country and no attack had come. There had been no hint of trouble for us.

Why, though other trains had suffered so severely, did we escape attack? We wondered much. It seemed a guardian angel watched over us, and if he could be called an angel, I believe one did. The great Sioux Chief who had been so friendly at Fort Laramie was proving his friendship. Father had given him food wen he was hungry, and later had taken him at his word, showing no fear. The lesser chiefs had seen him and his family and he had shaken our hands. Now, though other trains were attacked, each leaving its toll along the road, we were unmolested. It was well for us that we had "entertained royalty," when we gave our lunches to that wandering Sioux.

THE GRANDE RONDE

In the Grande Ronde Valley we tasted our first green vegetables. I went to a strange-looking house beside the road to buy some peas for mother. It was the first sod house I ever saw. A little girl was there, and while her mother was getting the peas ready I talked to her and looked and looked at the queer house with its brown earth walls and roof and floor. It was all very neat and clean, the inside walls covered as they were with white canvas. I would not have thought a dirt floor could have been so hard and so clean. "It is pretty in the spring," the little girl said. "Then the whole house is covered with bright-green grass. I wish it would stay that way all the time."

Those vegetables were so good; one would have to take a journey similar to ours to know how good they tasted.

Mother's hope that I would start growing and Father's prophecy that she would have to start sewing before we reached Oregon were both fulfilled. My dresses became so short and so tight that some of them I could not wear at all. One day Mother opened a chest and from it took a beautiful piece of orange-and-black-checked gingham. The checks were tiny and so pretty that I was delighted when I learned that I was to have a new dress. She made it evenings, sitting on the ground. We had brought one chair with us for Mother, but only for a short time did she use it. Long after we reached the new country, when we wanted to rest we sat upon the floor.

Clothes were a problem to us traveling. We wore linsey dresses most of the time and I often wore little gingham aprons over mine. The linsey dresses, woven from linen and wool, could hardly be worn out, so they were good for the plains. Keeping them clean was the great problem. Mother's and Carrie's were so long and so wide and so much in the way that I could not understand why they wore that kind.

There was one party at which everyone looked askance. The women did not wear dresses. Their clothes did look strange and funny, but I could never see why all the women did not wear that kind anyway. They wore long basque-like coats and ankle-length trousers and climbed about as easily as I did in my short dresses. But how they shocked the rest of the train! How the poor women were snubbed!

Rarely was there a day during that long trip but something interesting or something alarming happened. When we were leaving the Grande Ronde, Florence and I as we so often did were running ahead of the wagons as they climbed the bluff. Lying in the road, we found a pistol. We were looking at the queer little one-shot weapon to see if it was loaded when suddenly we heard rifle shots, and bullets began singing over our heads. Sure that someone was shooting at us, we scurried behind some big boulders and remained hidden, thoroughly frightened, until the wagons reached us. Father told us some men were having rifle practice and had been careless enough to shoot toward the road. "It wasn't very decent of them," I said. "They'd kill us just as dead as if they shot at us."

Here and there we passed Indian camps and rank-smelling places they were. The tanning deerskins, the drying meat, the piles of dried fish, the careless disposal of refuse, all in all their camps were not pleasant places. Even long-deserted camps where the floors of the lodges were grass-grown retained the odor. We children insisted that we could smell an Indian camp a mile.

A QUEER WAGON

One day in the road ahead we saw a wagon which had traveled with us all the way from Iowa The wagon was so small that it had seemed foolish to start on that tri p with such an outfit.

"How did Mr. Crump get so far ahead?" I asked Florence.

"He was behind a while ago," she said. "When did he pass?" We ran back and asked Win if he had seen Mr. Crump pass.

"No," he said, "he's away behind."

"But we saw his wagon in the road ahead," I insisted.

When we reached the spot where we had seen the wagon we looked about, surprised at what we saw. There in the road were the immense tracks of some animal, tracks so big that when Win turned a bucket used for watering horses over one, the track was barely covered.

Puzzled and wondering as to what creature could have made such tracks, we waited for the other wagons.

"Mr. Hampton," Win hailed the first to arrive, "look at these tracks. What are they?"

"A grizzly!" the man exclaimed, "A whopper, too."

A group soon gathered. Some of the men wanted to go into the swamp at once hunting the bear but were finally dissuaded. I certainly did not want to hunt for that creature. A bear big enough to look to me like a covered wagon was an animal that I wanted to see only from a distance.

The road we were following led us once more across great lava beds, though here we found no lack of water. Our chief trouble was the swarms of locusts. Everywhere the ground was covered. We couldn't walk without stepping on them; the ruts of the road were filled. For two days we were sickened by the sound of the wheels crushing them, by the sight of the wriggling masses.

The Indians, however, did not show our squeamishness, for here was a valuable source of food. Beside the road we saw pits about three feet in depth. Squaws beating lightly on the ground with bushes urged the locusts toward the pits. When a trench was filled, they tossed dried grass and light bushes over the top and set them afire. Killed by the quick heat and partially roasted the grasshoppers were taken out and dried. Such soups and stews they must have made! Many of the insects, Uncle Isaac told us, were ground, mixed with pond lily seeds and made into a meal, cakes of which were great delicacies, but tidbits we were willing to leave to the Indians.

MORE MOUNTAIN ROAD

We still had some hard stretches of road to travel. The Tigh Valley grade was so steep that it seemed as if the horses would fall over backward. Even the drivers walked. With five horses hitched to each wagon, men ahead with ropes to hold down the wagon tongues, and men behind to thrust blocks of wood under the wheels should the wagons start backward, they struggled up the awful grade. We climbed the hill well to the side of the road so as not to be in the way if anything about the wagons should slip. Glad we were when at last all were at the top.

Later we found ourselves winding along the Deschutes Road, a road hewn from solid rock and so narrow that in places there were but four inches outside the wheel track. Father was nearly frantic. Carrie with her three-horse team was ahead, and in no way could he pass the wagon to drive for her. A three-horse team, hitched as these were with two wheel horses and one leader, is a very hard team to handle. The cliff was so steep that he could not climb past her on the upper side and there was no room on the outside over the precipice beneath which the river rushed. The wagon was loaded in such a manner, with bedding, stove, everything, piled high and the cover drawn tightly over all, that no one could climb over it from behind. There was nothing to do but watch her as she drove ahead, hugging the bank. The horses, however, were no more anxious than she to take that dreadful plunge.

Far below, so far that they looked like toy people, I remember seeing a band of Indians catching some salmon and drying them about little smoky fires.

At last we reached Barlow Bridge, high, high above the rugged river. This was the end of the terrible canyon road. At the gate on the farther side, Father paid the toll and we drove through.

Here for the first time on the journey, our right of way was challenged. As we drove through the gate an old billy goat disputed our right to pass. He looked so absurd, dancing about, his head nodding up and down as he threatened the big horses, that we all had to laugh. Evidently he did not like our appearance. Finally, rather than be driven over, he edged to the side of the road and we left him and his little band of goats behind, and headed for Barlow Pass.

We were now nearing our journey's end. Three days at the most and we would reach Salem. Father and Mother would meet friends from whom they had been separated long. We camped that night near the summit of the Cascade Mountains, Mount Hood gleaming near us.

About our camp many of the trees had been felled. The stumps were a puzzling sight to me. Fully twenty feet above the ground they had been chopped off with axes. I asked Father how it could have been done.

He said they must have been cut in the winter when the snow lay on the ground. "Probably it was done by miners or prospectors," he said. "Wagons could not get through the pass when the snow was deep."

That night five men camped near us. When some of them came to our fire, we were glad to hear them talk of the new country. More and more anxious we were growing to hear of the place that was to be home to us. New lands have strange tale to tell and the people in them are often great storytellers. Our meeting with these men was to give us a tale to tell of our own.

In the morning as we were preparing to leave the spot, one of the men went to the back of Father's wagon and from it took his heavy saddlebags. They were very heavy, too.

"Why did you put those in there?" Father demanded.

"I put them there so that I would find them this morning," said the man, "I'm hoping to reach Salem alive and with them."

"You had no right to put them there. If they had been stolen, the blame would have fallen on me. You had no right to make me responsible." The man laughed. "I'm not afraid of you," he said, "but for days I haven't dared get separated for one minute from that crowd of men. I'd lose my life if one of those men had the ghost of a chance. I knew he'd never think of your wagon, so I put my gold in there."

Father was very angry. "I have my family here," he said, "and you endanger them in that way."

The man shook his head. "The gold was as safe there as if in a vault, and your family in no more danger. It was the only safe place."We never heard of the man's being robbed, so we always supposed he reached Salem with his gold.

THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL

The Barlow Road wound around Mount Hood, then abruptly descended into the Willamette Valley. The eastern slope had been gradual but on the western we found an extreme example of the ruggedness of the country. The road fairly dropped. Of course only the wheel horses were used, as the leaders cannot hold back. Again trees were tied by the tops to the coupling poles and men strained back, holding to long ropes. With the heavier wagons the ropes were snubbed around trees and the wagons eased down. It would be hard to describe the feeling of relief we had when we knew that the last bit of hard road was behind us.

Before we reached Salem, Florence and I were to have one more experience to remember. As we were riding behind the train the next day, busily talking, Florence said, "I wonder how far behind we are? We must hurry." We rode fast but found that all the wagons had forded a river before we reached them. We rode into the stream, but not knowing that the ford slanted across the river, we started straight for the other shore. Almost immediately, our horses were swimming. Florence's big horse swam high, but even so, her feet were wet. My little pony fairly wallowed. Splashed and drenched, not knowing how to manage a swimming horse, I had my hands full. The people on the bank were excitedly trying to point out the ford to us. At last we reached shallower water, and with Uncle Isaac pointing the way, we gained the bank.

The next day ended that summer's journey. Until the following year we were to stay in the Willamette Valley. After four long months of travel we were in the new land, a new country, yes, a new world. To us children the journey had seemed an interval of four months of play; then from the familiar life of a long-settled region, we were dropped into the barrenness, and the richness, of the new, the untried.