Just
beyond
the
breakfast-station
we
overtook a
Mormon
emigrant
train
of
thirty-three wagons;
and
tramping
wearily
along
and
driving
their
herd
of
loose
cows,
were
dozens
of
coarse-clad
and
sad-looking men, women
and
children,
who
had walked
as
they
were
walking now,
day
after
day
for
eight
lingering
weeks,
and
in
that
time had compassed
the
distance
our
stage
had
come
in
eight
days
and
three
hours—seven
hundred
and
ninety-
eight
miles!
They
were
dusty
and
uncombed, hatless, bonnetless
and
ragged,
and
they
did
look
so
tired!
After
breakfast,
we
bathed
in
Horse
Creek, a (previously) limpid, sparkling stream—an appreciated luxury,
for
it
was
very
seldom
that
our
furious
coach
halted
long
enough
for
an
indulgence
of
that
kind.
We
changed
horses
ten
or
twelve
times
in
every
twenty-four hours—changed mules, rather—six mules—and
did
it
nearly
every
time
in
four
minutes.
It
was
lively
work.
As
our
coach rattled
up
to
each
station
six
harnessed
mules
stepped
gayly
from
the
stable;
and
in
the
twinkling
of
an
eye, almost,
the
old
team
was
out,
and
the
new
one
in
and
we
off
and
away
again.
During
the
afternoon
we
passed
Sweetwater Creek,
Independence
Rock, Devil's Gate
and
the
Devil's Gap.
The
latter
were
wild
specimens
of
rugged
scenery,
and
full
of
interest—we
were
in
the
heart
of
the
Rocky
Mountains, now.
And
we
also
passed
by
"Alkali"
or
"Soda Lake,"
and
we
woke
up
to
the
fact
that
our
journey
had stretched a
long
way
across
the
world
when
the
driver said
that
the
Mormons
often
came
there
from
Great
Salt
Lake
City
to
haul
away
saleratus.
He
said
that
a
few
days
gone
by
they
had
shoveled
up
enough
pure
saleratus
from
the
ground (it
was
a
dry
lake)
to
load
two
wagons,
and
that
when
they
got
these
two
wagons-loads
of
a
drug
that
cost
them
nothing,
to
Salt
Lake,
they
could
sell
it
for
twenty-five
cents
a pound.
In
the
night
we
sailed
by
a
most
notable
curiosity,
and
one
we
had been hearing a
good
deal
about
for
a
day
or
two,
and
were
suffering
to
see.
This
was
what
might
be
called
a
natural
ice-house.
It
was
August, now,
and
sweltering
weather
in
the
daytime,
yet
at
one
of
the
stations
the
men
could
scape
the
soil
on
the
hill-side
under
the
lee
of
a
range
of
boulders,
and
at
a
depth
of
six
inches
cut
out
pure
blocks
of
ice—hard, compactly frozen,
and
clear
as
crystal!
Toward
dawn
we
got
under
way
again,
and
presently
as
we
sat
with
raised
curtains
enjoying
our
early-morning
smoke
and
contemplating
the
first
splendor
of
the
rising
sun
as
it
swept
down
the
long
array
of
mountain
peaks,
flushing
and
gilding
crag
after
crag
and
summit
after
summit,
as
if
the
invisible
Creator
reviewed
his
gray
veterans
and
they
saluted
with
a smile,
we
hove
in
sight
of
South
Pass City.
The
hotel-keeper,
the
postmaster,
the
blacksmith,
the
mayor,
the
constable,
the
city
marshal
and
the
principal
citizen
and
property
holder,
all
came
out
and
greeted
us
cheerily,
and
we
gave
him
good
day.
He
gave
us
a
little
Indian news,
and
a
little
Rocky
Mountain
news,
and
we
gave
him
some
Plains
information
in
return.
He
then
retired
to
his
lonely
grandeur
and
we
climbed
on
up
among
the
bristling
peaks
and
the
ragged
clouds.
South
Pass
City
consisted
of
four
log
cabins,
one
if
which
was
unfinished,
and
the
gentleman
with
all
those
offices
and
titles
was
the
chiefest
of
the
ten
citizens
of
the
place.
Think
of
hotel-keeper, postmaster, blacksmith, mayor, constable,
city
marshal
and
principal
citizen
all
condensed
into
one
person
and
crammed
into
one
skin. Bemis said
he
was
"a perfect Allen's revolver
of
dignities."
And
he
said
that
if
he
were
to
die
as
postmaster,
or
as
blacksmith,
or
as
postmaster
and
blacksmith both,
the
people
might
stand
it;
but
if
he
were
to
die
all
over,
it
would
be
a
frightful
loss
to
the
community.
Two
miles
beyond
South
Pass
City
we
saw
for
the
first
time
that
mysterious
marvel
which
all
Western
untraveled
boys
have
heard
of
and
fully
believe
in,
but
are
sure
to
be
astounded
at
when
they
see
it
with
their
own
eyes, nevertheless—banks
of
snow
in
dead
summer
time.
We
were
now
far
up
toward
the
sky,
and
knew
all
the
time
that
we
must
presently
encounter
lofty
summits
clad
in
the
"eternal snow"
which
was
so
common
place
a
matter
of
mention
in
books,
and
yet
when
I
did
see
it
glittering
in
the
sun
on
stately
domes
in
the
distance
and
knew
the
month
was
August
and
that
my coat
was
hanging
up
because
it
was
too
warm
to
wear it, I
was
full
as
much
amazed
as
if
I
never
had
heard
of
snow
in
August
before. Truly, "seeing
is
believing"—and
many
a
man
lives
a
long
life
through,
thinking
he
believes
certain
universally received
and
well
established
things,
and
yet
never
suspects
that
if
he
were
confronted
by
those
things
once,
he
would
discover
that
he
did
not
really
believe
them
before,
but
only
thought
he
believed
them.
In
a
little
while
quite
a
number
of
peaks swung
into
view
with
long
claws
of
glittering
snow
clasping
them;
and
with
here
and
there,
in
the
shade,
down
the
mountain
side, a
little
solitary
patch
of
snow
looking
no
larger
than
a lady's pocket-handkerchief
but
being
in
reality
as
large
as
a "public square."
And
now,
at
last,
we
were
fairly
in
the
renowned
SOUTH
PASS,
and
whirling
gayly
along
high
above
the
common
world.
We
were
perched
upon
the
extreme
summit
of
the
great
range
of
the
Rocky
Mountains,
toward
which
we
had been climbing,
patiently
climbing, ceaselessly climbing,
for
days
and
nights
together—and
about
us
was
gathered
a
convention
of
Nature's kings
that
stood ten, twelve,
and
even
thirteen
thousand
feet high—grand
old
fellows
who
would
have
to
stoop
to
see
Mount
Washington,
in
the
twilight.
We
were
in
such
an
airy
elevation
above
the
creeping
populations
of
the
earth,
that
now
and
then
when
the
obstructing
crags
stood
out
of
the
way
it
seemed
that
we
could
look
around
and
abroad
and
contemplate
the
whole
great
globe,
with
its
dissolving
views
of
mountains,
seas
and
continents
stretching
away
through
the
mystery
of
the
summer
haze.
As
a
general
thing
the
Pass
was
more
suggestive
of
a
valley
than
a
suspension
bridge
in
the
clouds—but
it
strongly
suggested
the
latter
at
one
spot.
At
that
place
the
upper
third
of
one
or
two
majestic
purple
domes
projected
above
our
level
on
either
hand
and
gave
us
a sense
of
a
hidden
great
deep
of
mountains
and
plains
and
valleys
down
about
their
bases
which
we
fancied
we
might
see
if
we
could
step
to
the
edge
and
look
over.
These
Sultans
of
the
fastnesses
were
turbaned
with
tumbled
volumes
of
cloud,
which
shredded
away
from
time
to
time
and
drifted
off
fringed
and
torn, trailing
their
continents
of
shadow
after
them;
and
catching presently
on
an
intercepting
peak, wrapped
it
about
and
brooded there—then shredded
away
again
and
left
the
purple
peak,
as
they
had left
the
purple
domes, downy
and
white
with
new-laid snow.
In
passing,
these
monstrous
rags
of
cloud
hung
low
and
swept
along
right
over
the
spectator's head, swinging
their
tatters
so
nearly
in
his
face
that
his
impulse
was
to
shrink
when
they
came closet.
In
the
one
place
I
speak
of,
one
could
look
below
him
upon
a
world
of
diminishing
crags
and
canyons
leading down, down,
and
away
to
a
vague
plain
with
a thread
in
it
which
was
a road,
and
bunches
of
feathers
in
it
which
were
trees,—a pretty
picture
sleeping
in
the
sunlight—but
with
a
darkness
stealing
over
it
and
glooming
its
features
deeper
and
deeper
under
the
frown
of
a coming storm;
and
then,
while
no
film
or
shadow
marred
the
noon
brightness
of
his
high perch,
he
could
watch
the
tempest
break
forth
down
there
and
see
the
lightnings
leap
from
crag
to
crag
and
the
sheeted
rain
drive
along
the
canyon-sides,
and
hear
the
thunders
peal
and
crash
and
roar.
We
had
this
spectacle; a
familiar
one
to
many,
but
to
us
a novelty.
We
bowled
along
cheerily,
and
presently,
at
the
very
summit
(though
it
had been
all
summit
to
us,
and
all
equally level,
for
half
an
hour
or
more),
we
came
to
a
spring
which
spent
its
water
through
two
outlets
and
sent
it
in
opposite
directions.
The
conductor
said
that
one
of
those
streams
which
we
were
looking
at,
was
just
starting
on
a
journey
westward
to
the
Gulf
of
California
and
the
Pacific
Ocean,
through
hundreds
and
even
thousands
of
miles
of
desert
solitudes.
He
said
that
the
other
was
just
leaving
its
home
among
the
snow-peaks
on
a
similar
journey
eastward—and
we
knew
that
long
after
we
should
have
forgotten
the
simple
rivulet
it
would
still
be
plodding
its
patient
way
down
the
mountain
sides,
and
canyon-beds,
and
between
the
banks
of
the
Yellowstone;
and
by
and
by
would
join
the
broad
Missouri
and
flow
through
unknown
plains
and
deserts
and
unvisited wildernesses;
and
add
a
long
and
troubled
pilgrimage
among
snags
and
wrecks
and
sandbars;
and
enter
the
Mississippi,
touch
the
wharves
of
St.
Louis
and
still
drift
on,
traversing
shoals
and
rocky
channels,
then
endless
chains
of
bottomless
and
ample
bends, walled
with
unbroken
forests,
then
mysterious
byways
and
secret
passages
among
woody
islands,
then
the
chained
bends
again, bordered
with
wide
levels
of
shining
sugar-cane
in
place
of
the
sombre
forests;
then
by
New
Orleans
and
still
other
chains
of
bends—and finally,
after
two
long
months
of
daily
and
nightly
harassment, excitement, enjoyment, adventure,
and
awful
peril
of
parched
throats, pumps
and
evaporation, pass
the
Gulf
and
enter
into
its
rest
upon
the
bosom
of
the
tropic
sea,
never
to
look
upon
its
snow-peaks
again
or
regret
them. I
freighted
a leaf
with
a
mental
message
for
the
friends
at
home,
and
dropped
it
in
the
stream.
But
I
put
no
stamp
on
it
and
it
was
held
for
postage somewhere.
On
the
summit
we
overtook
an
emigrant
train
of
many
wagons,
many
tired men
and
women,
and
many
a
disgusted
sheep
and
cow.
In
the
wofully dusty horseman
in
charge
of
the
expedition
I
recognized
John ——.
Of
all
persons
in
the
world
to
meet
on
top
of
the
Rocky
Mountains
thousands
of
miles
from
home,
he
was
the
last
one
I
should
have
looked
for.
We
were
school-boys
together
and
warm
friends
for
years.
But
a boyish
prank
of
mine
had disruptured
this
friendship
and
it
had
never
been renewed.
The
act
of
which
I
speak
was
this. I had been accustomed
to
visit
occasionally
an
editor
whose
room
was
in
the
third
story
of
a building
and
overlooked
the
street.
One
day
this
editor
gave
me
a
watermelon
which
I
made
preparations
to
devour
on
the
spot,
but
chancing
to
look
out
of
the
window, I
saw
John standing directly
under
it
and
an
irresistible
desire
came
upon
me
to
drop
the
melon
on
his
head,
which
I immediately did. I
was
the
loser,
for
it
spoiled
the
melon,
and
John
never
forgave
me
and
we
dropped
all
intercourse
and
parted,
but
now
met
again
under
these
circumstances.
We
recognized
each
other
simultaneously,
and
hands
were
grasped
as
warmly
as
if
no
coldness had
ever
existed
between
us,
and
no
allusion
was
made
to
any.
All
animosities
were
buried
and
the
simple
fact
of
meeting
a
familiar
face
in
that
isolated
spot
so
far
from
home,
was
sufficient
to
make
us
forget
all
things
but
pleasant
ones,
and
we
parted
again
with
sincere
"good-bye"
and
"God
bless
you"
from
both.
We
had been climbing
up
the
long
shoulders
of
the
Rocky
Mountains
for
many
tedious
hours—we started
down
them, now.
And
we
went spinning
away
at
a round
rate
too.
We
left
the
snowy
Wind
River
Mountains
and
Uinta
Mountains
behind,
and
sped
away,
always
through
splendid
scenery
but
occasionally
through
long
ranks
of
white
skeletons
of
mules
and
oxen—monuments
of
the
huge
emigration
of
other
days—and
here
and
there
were
up-ended
boards
or
small
piles
of
stones
which
the
driver said
marked
the
resting-place
of
more
precious remains.
It
was
the
loneliest
land
for
a grave! A
land
given
over
to
the
cayote
and
the
raven—which
is
but
another
name
for
desolation
and
utter
solitude.
On
damp, murky nights,
these
scattered
skeletons
gave
forth
a soft,
hideous
glow,
like
very
faint
spots
of
moonlight starring
the
vague
desert.
It
was
because
of
the
phosphorus
in
the
bones.
But
no
scientific
explanation
could
keep
a
body
from
shivering
when
he
drifted
by
one
of
those
ghostly
lights
and
knew
that
a
skull
held
it.
At
midnight
it
began
to
rain,
and
I
never
saw
anything
like
it—indeed, I
did
not
even
see
this,
for
it
was
too
dark.
We
fastened
down
the
curtains
and
even
caulked
them
with
clothing,
but
the
rain
streamed
in
in
twenty
places, nothwithstanding.
There
was
no
escape.
If
one
moved
his
feet
out
of
a stream,
he
brought
his
body
under
one;
and
if
he
moved
his
body
he
caught
one
somewhere else.
If
he
struggled
out
of
the
drenched
blankets
and
sat up,
he
was
bound
to
get
one
down
the
back
of
his
neck. Meantime
the
stage
was
wandering
about
a
plain
with
gaping
gullies
in
it,
for
the
driver
could
not
see
an
inch
before
his
face
nor
keep
the
road,
and
the
storm
pelted
so
pitilessly
that
there
was
no
keeping
the
horses
still.
With
the
first
abatement
the
conductor
turned
out
with
lanterns
to
look
for
the
road,
and
the
first
dash
he
made
was
into
a
chasm
about
fourteen
feet deep,
his
lantern
following
like
a meteor.
As
soon
as
he
touched bottom
he
sang
out
frantically: "Don't
come
here!"
To
which
the
driver,
who
was
looking
over
the
precipice
where
he
had disappeared, replied,
with
an
injured
air: "Think I'm a
dam
fool?"
The
conductor
was
more
than
an
hour
finding
the
road—a
matter
which
showed
us
how
far
we
had
wandered
and
what
chances
we
had been taking.
He
traced
our
wheel-tracks
to
the
imminent
verge
of
danger,
in
two
places. I
have
always
been
glad
that
we
were
not
killed
that
night. I
do
not
know
any
particular
reason,
but
I
have
always
been glad.
In
the
morning,
the
tenth
day
out,
we
crossed
Green
River, a fine, large,
limpid
stream—stuck
in
it
with
the
water
just
up
to
the
top
of
our
mail- bed,
and
waited
till
extra
teams
were
put
on
to
haul
us
up
the
steep
bank.
But
it
was
nice
cool water,
and
besides
it
could
not
find
any
fresh
place
on
us
to
wet.
At
the
Green
River
station
we
had breakfast—hot biscuits,
fresh
antelope
steaks,
and
coffee—the
only
decent
meal
we
tasted
between
the
United
States
and
Great
Salt
Lake
City,
and
the
only
one
we
were
ever
really
thankful
for.
Think
of
the
monotonous
execrableness
of
the
thirty
that
went
before
it,
to
leave
this
one
simple
breakfast
looming
up
in
my
memory
like
a shot-
tower
after
all
these
years
have
gone by!
At
five
P.M.
we
reached
Fort
Bridger,
one
hundred
and
seventeen
miles
from
the
South
Pass,
and
one
thousand
and
twenty-five
miles
from
St. Joseph. Fifty-two
miles
further
on,
near
the
head
of
Echo
Canyon,
we
met
sixty
United
States
soldiers
from
Camp
Floyd.
The
day
before,
they
had
fired
upon
three
hundred
or
four
hundred
Indians,
whom
they
supposed
gathered
together
for
no
good
purpose.
In
the
fight
that
had ensued,
four
Indians
were
captured,
and
the
main
body
chased
four
miles,
but
nobody
killed.
This
looked
like
business.
We
had a
notion
to
get
out
and
join
the
sixty
soldiers,
but
upon
reflecting
that
there
were
four
hundred
of
the
Indians,
we
concluded
to
go
on
and
join
the
Indians.
Echo
Canyon
is
twenty
miles
long.
It
was
like
a long, smooth,
narrow
street,
with
a
gradual
descending
grade,
and
shut
in
by
enormous
perpendicular
walls
of
coarse
conglomerate,
four
hundred
feet high
in
many
places,
and
turreted
like
mediaeval castles.
This
was
the
most
faultless
piece
of
road
in
the
mountains,
and
the
driver said
he
would
"let
his
team
out."
He
did,
and
if
the
Pacific
express
trains
whiz
through
there
now
any
faster
than
we
did
then
in
the
stage-coach, I
envy
the
passengers
the
exhilaration
of
it.
We
fairly
seemed
to
pick
up
our
wheels
and
fly—and
the
mail
matter
was
lifted
up
free
from
everything
and
held
in
solution! I
am
not
given
to
exaggeration,
and
when
I
say
a
thing
I
mean
it. However, time presses.
At
four
in
the
afternoon
we
arrived
on
the
summit
of
Big
Mountain,
fifteen
miles
from
Salt
Lake
City,
when
all
the
world
was
glorified
with
the
setting
sun,
and
the
most
stupendous
panorama
of
mountain
peaks
yet
encountered
burst
on
our
sight.
We
looked
out
upon
this
sublime
spectacle
from
under
the
arch
of
a
brilliant
rainbow!
Even
the
overland stage-driver stopped
his
horses
and
gazed!
Half
an
hour
or
an
hour
later,
we
changed
horses,
and
took
supper
with
a
Mormon
"Destroying Angel." "Destroying Angels,"
as
I
understand
it,
are
Latter-Day Saints
who
are
set
apart
by
the
Church
to
conduct
permanent
disappearances
of
obnoxious
citizens. I had
heard
a
deal
about
these
Mormon
Destroying
Angels
and
the
dark
and
bloody
deeds
they
had done,
and
when
I
entered
this
one's
house
I had my shudder
all
ready.
But
alas
for
all
our
romances,
he
was
nothing
but
a loud, profane, offensive,
old
blackguard!
He
was
murderous
enough, possibly,
to
fill
the
bill
of
a Destroyer,
but
would
you
have
any
kind
of
an
Angel
devoid
of
dignity?
Could
you
abide
an
Angel
in
an
unclean
shirt
and
no
suspenders?
Could
you
respect
an
Angel
with
a horse-laugh
and
a swagger
like
a buccaneer?
There
were
other
blackguards present—comrades
of
this
one.
And
there
was
one
person
that
looked
like
a gentleman—Heber C. Kimball's son,
tall
and
well
made,
and
thirty
years
old, perhaps. A
lot
of
slatternly women
flitted
hither
and
thither
in
a hurry,
with
coffee-pots,
plates
of
bread,
and
other
appurtenances
to
supper,
and
these
were
said
to
be
the
wives
of
the
Angel—or
some
of
them,
at
least.
And
of
course
they
were;
for
if
they
had been
hired
"help"
they
would
not
have
let
an
angel
from
above
storm
and
swear
at
them
as
he
did,
let
alone
one
from
the
place
this
one
hailed
from.
This
was
our
first
experience
of
the
western
"peculiar institution,"
and
it
was
not
very
prepossessing.
We
did
not
tarry
long
to
observe
it,
but
hurried
on
to
the
home
of
the
Latter-Day Saints,
the
stronghold
of
the
prophets,
the
capital
of
the
only
absolute
monarch
in
America—Great
Salt
Lake
City.
As
the
night
closed
in
we
took
sanctuary
in
the
Salt
Lake
House
and
unpacked
our
baggage.