NEELIE IS SICK.
Saturday, July 22.
We are within sight of Pine Grove in Wyoming Territory.
Neelie was very much better this morning; almost well, she said at noon, and rode her pony this afternoon. I was riding with her when I noticed a heavy rain-storm coming. I begged her to come on and not risk getting wet.
“Oh no, Miss Sallie; I don’t want to ride fast. This air is so delicious, and I think I want to ride alone for a while; you go on, and I will come very soon.”
I saw it was useless to urge her. I am always careful not to expose myself unnecessarily to a drenching, so I raced on to our own wagons and had barely time to unsaddle Dick and turn him loose when down came the rain in torrents. I was so anxious about Neelie and expected her to come tearing through the rain. I looked from the back of the wagon and saw her coming—plodding along at the same slow gait, as if she did not know it was raining. When the rain was almost over she came along—drenched, of course. She laughed at my look of dismay and paid no heed to my scolding. Mother and I both urged her to go quickly and change her wet garments for dry and warm ones. She got off her horse and climbed into the wagon. When we stopped I went around to see how she fared. She sat in the wagon with a blanket-shawl around her, and the wet clothes had not been changed for dry ones. She was shivering with cold.
“Oh, Neelie, my precious girl, I am afraid you have killed yourself.”
“Oh, no, Miss Sallie; I am not so easily killed as all that.”
“But, Neelie, you have been sick for a week, and now to get this drenching. I fear the consequences.”
The family do not appear at all anxious, so there is nothing I can do but hope and trust that her naturally strong constitution may bear even this strain. I advised her to go to bed, drink hot tea, and get into a perspiration. I doubt very much if she will do it.
Milt Walker is on the sick-list, too. Hillhouse went to bed with a severe headache last night, but a night’s rest has entirely restored him.
We crossed three very muddy streams to-day, the first muddy water we have seen since leaving the South Platte. Since coming to the mountains, the water has been as clear as crystal until to-day; perhaps we are coming into mining country. We stopped quite early this afternoon; the McMahan train has passed and gone out of sight. I hope they will not go too far, and that they will lend us protection with their portable engine and other machinery.
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Sunday, July 23.
We are resting to-day. I went with Mrs. Hardinbrooke, Lyde and a gentleman friend of Lyde’s, for a long ramble over the mountains this afternoon. We found a most delightful spring where the water seemingly gushes out of the rock. Just below this spring was a patch of the finest wild onions I ever saw. We brought a good supply to camp. We are so starved for green vegetables that everyone seems to enjoy the onions, though some had never eaten onions before, they said. For my part I always did like onions.