Before the first streak of dawn I was up and off to hunt for the horses and mules, which were now allowed to roam in search of feed. On my return, the men were afoot, taking it easy as usual. Some artemisia bushes were ablaze for the morning’s coffee. No one but Fred had a suspicion of the coming crisis. I waited till each one had lighted his pipe; then quietly requested the lot to gather the provision packs together, as it was desirable to take stock, and make some estimate of demand and supply. Nothing loth, the men obeyed. ‘Now,’ said I, ‘turn all the hams out of their bags, and let us see how long they will last.’ When done: ‘What!’ I exclaimed, with well—feigned dismay, ‘that’s not all, surely? There are not enough here to last a fortnight. Where are the rest? No more? Why, we shall starve.’ The men’s faces fell; but never a murmur, nor a sound. ‘Turn out the biscuit bags. Here, spread these empty ham sacks, and pour the biscuit on to them. Don’t lose any of the dust. We shall want every crumb, mouldy or not.’ The gloomy faces grew gloomier. What’s to be done?’ Silence. ‘The first thing, as I think all will agree, is to divide what is left into nine equal shares—that’s our number now—and let each one take his ninth part, to do what he likes with. You yourselves shall portion out the shares, and then draw lots for choice.’

This presentation of the inevitable compelled submission. The whole, amounting to twelve light mule packs (it had been fifteen fairly heavy ones after our purchases at Fort Laramie), was still a goodly bulk to look at. The nine peddling dividends, when seen singly, were not quite what the shareholders had anticipated.

Why were they still silent? Why did they not rebel, and visit their wrath upon the directors? Because they knew in their hearts that we had again and again predicted the catastrophe. They knew we had warned them scores and scores of times of the consequences of their wilful and reckless improvidence. They were stupefied, aghast, at the ruin they had brought upon themselves. To turn upon us, to murder us, and divide our three portions between them, would have been suicidal. In the first place, our situation was as desperate as theirs. We should fight for our lives; and it was not certain, in fact it was improbable, that either Jacob or William would side against us. Without our aid—they had not a compass among them—they were helpless. The instinct of self-preservation bade them trust to our good will.

So far, then, the game was won. Almost humbly they asked what we advised them to do. The answer was prompt and decisive: ‘Get back to Fort Laramie as fast as you can.’ ‘But how? Were they to walk? They couldn’t carry their packs.’ ‘Certainly not; we were English gentlemen, and would behave as such. Each man should have his own mule; each, into the bargain, should receive his pay according to agreement.’ They were agreeably surprised. I then very strongly counselled them not to travel together. Past experience proved how dangerous this must be. To avoid the temptation, even the chance, of this happening, the surest and safest plan would be for each party to start separately, and not leave till the last was out of sight. For my part I had resolved to go alone.

It was a melancholy day for everyone. And to fill the cup of wretchedness to overflowing, the rain, beginning with a drizzle, ended with a downpour. Consultations took place between men who had not spoken to one another for weeks. Fred offered to go on, at all events to Salt Lake City, if Nelson the Canadian and Jacob would go with him. Both eagerly closed with the offer. They would be so much nearer to the ‘diggings,’ and were, moreover, fond of their leader. Louis would go back to Fort Laramie. Potter and Morris would cross the mountains, and strike south for the Mormon city if their provisions and mules threatened to give out. William would try his luck alone in the same way. And there remained no one but Samson, undecided and unprovided for. The strong weak man sat on the ground in the steady rain, smoking pipe after pipe; watching first the preparations, then the departures, one after the other, at intervals of an hour or so. First the singles, then the pair; then, late in the afternoon, Fred and his two henchmen.

It is needless to depict our separation. I do not think either expected ever to see the other again. Yet we parted after the manner of trueborn Britons, as if we should meet again in a day or two. ‘Well, good-bye, old fellow. Good luck. What a beastly day, isn’t it?’ But emotions are only partially suppressed by subduing their expression. The hearts of both were full.

I watched the gradual disappearance of my dear friend, and thought with a sigh of my loss in Jacob and Nelson, the two best men of the band. It was a comfort to reflect that they had joined Fred. Jacob especially was full of resource; Nelson of energy and determination. And the courage and cool judgment of Fred, and his presence of mind in emergencies, were all pledges for the safety of the trio.

As they vanished behind a distant bluff, I turned to the sodden wreck of the deserted camp, and began actively to pack my mules. Samson seemed paralysed by imbecility.

‘What had I better do?’ he presently asked, gazing with dull eyes at his two mules and two horses.

‘I don’t care what you do. It is nothing to me. You had better pack your mules before it is dark, or you may lose them.’

‘I may as well go with you, I think. I don’t care much about going back to Laramie.’

He looked miserable. I was so. I had held out under a long and heavy strain. Parting with Fred had, for the moment, staggered my resolution. I was sick at heart. The thought of packing two mules twice a day, single-handed, weakened as I was by illness, appalled me. And though ashamed of the perversity which had led me to fling away the better and accept the worse, I yielded.

‘Very well then. Make haste. Get your traps together. I’ll look after the horses.’

It took more than an hour before the four mules were ready. Like a fool, I left Samson to tie the led horses in a string, while I did the same with the mules. He started, leading the horses. I followed with the mule train some minutes later. Our troubles soon began. The two spare horses were nearly as wild as the mules. I had not got far when I discerned through the rain a kicking and plunging and general entanglement of the lot ahead of me. Samson had fastened the horses together with slip knots; and they were all doing their best to strangle one another and themselves. To leave the mules was dangerous, yet two men were required to release the maddened horses. At last the labour was accomplished; and once more the van pushed on with distinct instructions as to the line of march, it being now nearly dark. The mules had naturally vanished in the gloom; and by the time I was again in my saddle, Samson was—I knew not where. On and on I travelled, far into the night. But failing to overtake my companion, and taking for granted that he had missed his way, I halted when I reached a stream, threw off the packs, let the animals loose, rolled myself in my blanket, and shut my eyes upon a trying day.

Nothing happens but the unexpected. Daylight woke me. Samson, still in his rugs, was but a couple of hundred yards further up the stream. In the afternoon of the third day we fell in with William. He had cut himself a long willow wand and was fishing for trout, of which he had caught several in the upper reaches of the Sweetwater. He threw down his rod, hastened to welcome our arrival, and at once begged leave to join us. He was already sick of solitude. He had come across Potter and Morris, who had left him that morning. They had been visited by wolves in the night, (I too had been awakened by their howlings,) and poor William did not relish the thought of the mountains alone, with his one little white mule—which he called ‘Cream.’ He promised to do his utmost to help with the packing, and ‘not cost us a cent.’ I did not tell him how my heart yearned towards him, and how miserably my courage had oozed away since we parted, but made a favour of his request, and granted it. The gain, so long as it lasted, was incalculable.

The summit of the South Pass is between 8000 and 9000 feet above the level of the Gulf of Mexico. The Pass itself is many miles broad, undulating on the surface, but not abruptly. The peaks of the Wind River Chain, immediately to the north, are covered with snow; and as we gradually got into the misty atmosphere we felt the cold severely. The lariats—made of raw hide—became rods of ice; and the poor animals, whose backs were masses of festering raws, suffered terribly from exposure. It was interesting to come upon proofs of the ‘divide’ within a mile of the most elevated point in the pass. From the Hudson to this spot, all waters had flowed eastward; now suddenly every little rivulet was making for the Pacific.

The descent is as gradual as the rise. On the first day of it we lost two animals, a mule and Samson’s spare horse. The latter, never equal to the heavy weight of its owner, could go no further; and the dreadful state of the mule’s back rendered packing a brutality. Morris and Potter, who passed us a few days later, told us they had seen the horse dead, and partially eaten by wolves; the mule they had shot to put it out of its misery.

In due course we reached Fort Hall, a trading post of the Hudson’s Bay Company, some 200 miles to the north-west of the South Pass. Sir George Simpson, Chairman of that Company, had given me letters, which ensured the assistance of its servants. It was indeed a rest and a luxury to spend a couple of idle days here, and revive one’s dim recollection of fresh eggs and milk. But we were already in September. Our animals were in a deplorable condition; and with the exception of a little flour, a small supply of dried meat, and a horse for Samson, Mr. Grant, the trader, had nothing to sell us. He told us, moreover, that before we reached Fort BoisÉ, their next station, 300 miles further on, we had to traverse a great rocky desert, where we might travel four-and-twenty hours after leaving water, before we met with it again. There was nothing for it but to press onwards. It was too late now to cross the Sierra Nevada range, which lay between us and California; and with the miserable equipment left to us, it was all we could hope to do to reach Oregon before the passage of the Blue Mountains was blocked by the winter’s snow.

Mr. Grant’s warnings were verified to the foot of the letter. Great were our sufferings, and almost worse were those of the poor animals, from the want of water. Then, too, unlike the desert of Sahara, where the pebbly sand affords a solid footing, the soil here is the calcined powder of volcanic dÉbris, so fine that every step in it is up to one’s ankles; while clouds of it rose, choking the nostrils, and covering one from head to heel. Here is a passage from my journal:

‘Road rocky in places, but generally deep in the finest floury sand. A strong and biting wind blew dead in our teeth, smothering us in dust, which filled every pore. William presented such a ludicrous appearance that Samson and I went into fits over it. An old felt hat, fastened on by a red cotton handkerchief, tied under his chin, partly hid his lantern-jawed visage; this, naturally of a dolorous cast, was screwed into wrinkled contortions by its efforts to resist the piercing gale. The dust, as white as flour, had settled thick upon him, the extremity of his nasal organ being the only rosy spot left; its pearly drops lodged upon a chin almost as prominent. His shoulders were shrugged to a level with his head, and his long legs dangled from the back of little “Cream” till they nearly touched the ground.’

We laughed at him, it is true, but he was so good-natured, so patient, so simple-minded, and, now and then, when he and I were alone, so sentimental and confidential about Mary, and the fortune he meant to bring her back, that I had a sort of maternal liking for him; and even a vicarious affection for Mary herself, the colour of whose eyes and hair—nay, whose weight avoirdupois—I was now accurately acquainted with. No, the honest fellow had not quite the grit of a ‘Leatherstocking.’

One night, when we had halted after dark, he went down to a gully (we were not then in the desert) to look for water for our tea. Samson, armed with the hatchet, was chopping wood. I stayed to arrange the packs, and spread the blankets. Suddenly I heard a voice from the bottom of the ravine, crying out, ‘Bring the guns for God’s sake! Make haste! Bring the guns!’ I rushed about in the dark, tumbling over the saddles, but could nowhere lay my hands on a rifle. Still the cry was for ‘Guns!’ My own, a muzzle-loader, was discharged, but a rifle none the less. Snatching up this, and one of my pistols, which, by the way, had fallen into the river a few hours before, I shouted for Samson, and ran headlong to the rescue. Before I got to the bottom of the hill I heard groans, which sounded like the last of poor William. I holloaed to know where he was, and was answered in a voice that discovered nothing worse than terror.

It appeared that he had met a grizzly bear drinking at the very spot where he was about to fill his can; that he had bolted, and the bear had pursued him; but that he had ‘cobbled the bar with rocks,’ had hit it in the eye, or nose, he was not sure which, and thus narrowly escaped with his life. I could not help laughing at his story, though an examination of the place next morning so far verified it, that his footprints and the bear’s were clearly intermingled on the muddy shore of the stream. To make up for his fright, he was extremely courageous when restored by tea and a pipe. ‘If we would follow the trail with him, he’d go right slick in for her anyhow. If his rifle didn’t shoot plum, he’d a bowie as ’ud rise her hide, and no mistake. He’d be darn’d if he didn’t make meat of that bar in the morning.’