William G.is not hurt, and together we trudge on after the runaways in the hope of overtaking them, which we do some two miles off.They are in a snowbank, and "nobody hurt".
We are soon on the road again, all serene; though I believe the Doctor did observe that such a thing would not have occurred under a monarchial form of government.
We reach Weber station, thirty miles from Salt Lake City and wildly situated at the foot of the grand Echo Canyon, at 3 o'clock the following morning.We remain over a day here with James Bromley, agent of the Overland Stage line, and who is better known on the plains than Shakspeare is; although Shakspeare has done a good deal for the stage.James Bromley has seen the Overland line grow up from its ponyicy; and as Fitz-Green Halleck happily observes, none know him BUT TO LIKE HIS STYLE.He was intended for an agent.In his infancy he used to lisp the refrain, "I want to be an agent, And with the agents stand."I part with this kind-hearted gentleman, to whose industry and ability the Overland line owes much of its success, with sincere regret; and I hope he will soon get rich enough to transplant his charming wife from the desert to the "White settlements".
Forward to Fort Bridger, in an open sleigh.Night clear, cold, and moonlit.Driver Mr.Samuel Smart.Through Echo Canyon to Hanging Rock Station.The snow is very deep, there is no path, and we literally shovel our way to Robert Pollock's station, which we achieve in the Course of Time.Mr.P.gets up and kindles a fire, and a snowy nightcap and a pair of very bright black eyes beam upon us from the bed.That is Mrs.Robert Pollock.The log cabin is a comfortable one.I make coffee in my French coffee-pot, and let loose some of the roast chickens in my basket.(Tired of fried bacon saleratus bread--the principle bill of fare at the stations --we had supplied ourselves with chicken, boiled ham, onions, sausages, sea bread, canned butter, cheese, honey, &c.&c., an example all Overland traders would do well to follow.) Mrs.
Pollock tells me where I can find cream for the coffee, and cups and saucers for the same, and appears so kind, that I regret our stay is so limited that we can't see more of her.
On to Yellow Creek Station.Then Needle Rock--a desolate hut on the Desert, house and barn in one building.The station-keeper is a miserable, toothless wretch, with shaggy yellow hair, but says he's going to get married.I think I see him.
To Bear River.A pleasant Mormon named Myers this station, and he gives us a first-rate breakfast, Robert Curtis takes the reins from Mr.Smart here, and we get on to wheels again.Begin to see groups of trees- a new sight to us.
Pass Quaking Asp Springs and Muddy to Fort Bridger.Here are a group of white buildings, built round a plaza, across the middle of which runs a creek.There are a few hundred troops here under the command of Major Gallergher, a gallant officer and a gentleman, well worth knowing.We stay here two days.
We are on the road again, Sunday the 14th, with a driver of the highly floral name of Primrose.At 7 the next morning we reach Green River Station, and enter Idaho Territory.This is the Bitter Creek division of the Overland route, of which we had heard so many unfavorable stories.The division is really well managed by Mr.
Stewart, though the country through which it stretches is the most wretched I ever saw.The water is liquid alkali, and the roads are soft sand.The snow is gone now, and the dust is thick and blinding.So drearily, wearily we drag onward.
We reach the summit of the Rocky Mountains at midnight on the 17th.
The climate changes suddenly, and the cold is intense.We resume runners, have a breakdown, and are forced to walk four miles.
I remember that one of the numerous reasons urged in favor of General Fremont's election to the Presidency in 1856 was his finding the path across the Rocky Mountains.I wrung my frostbitten hands on that dreadful night, and declared that for me to deliberately go over that path in mid-winter was a sufficient reason for my election to any lunatic asylum, by an overwhelming vote.Dr.Hingston made a similar remark, and wondered if he should ever clink glasses with his friend Lord Palmerston again.
Another sensation.Not comic this time.One of our passengers, a fair-haired German boy, whose sweet ways had quite won us all, sank on the snow, and said--Let me sleep.We knew only too well what that meant, and tried hard to rouse him.It was in vain.Let me sleep, he said.And so in the cold starlight he died.We took him up tenderly from the snow, and bore him to the sleigh that awaited us by the roadside, some two miles away.The new moon was shining now, and the smile on the sweet white face told how painlessly the poor boy had died.No one knew him.He was from the Bannock mines, was ill-clad, had no baggage or money, and his fare was paid to Denver.He had said that he was going back to Germany.That was all we knew.So at sunrise the next morning we buried him at the foot of the grand mountains that are snow-covered and icy all the year round, far away from the Faderland, where it may be, some poor mother is crying for her darling who will not come.
....
We strike the North Platte on the 18th.The fare at the stations is daily improving, and we often have antelope steaks now.They tell us of eggs not far off, and we encourage (by a process not wholly unconnected with bottles) the drivers to keep their mules in motion.
Antelopes by the thousand can be seen racing the plains from the coach windows.
At Elk Mountain we encounter a religious driver named Edward Whitney, who never swears at the mules.This has made him distinguished all over the plains.This pious driver tried to convert the Doctor, but I am mortified to say that his efforts were not crowned with success, Fort Halleck is a mile from Elk, and here are some troops of the Ohio 11th regiment, under the command of Major Thomas L.Mackey.
