WE DECIDE TO GO TO MONTANA.
“Yes, so do the Walkers, and Mr. Hardinbrooke, and Mr. Morrison, and everyone else that are going to Montana.”
“Well, why not go there?”
“I do not like for you and mother to go there, for it will be rough living I expect, but I intend to go as soon as you are settled somewhere near Mr. Kerfoot’s folks.”
“Just listen to the boy. Mother come here for five minutes, do. What do you think this boy is saying? That he is going to Montana when we are settled in California, or some other place.”
“Well, if he is going to Montana, we are going, too. How many women are on their way there in these trains? I reckon it will not be any worse for us than it will be for them.”
“All right, if you are both willing to go to Montana, we will change our plans accordingly. It is not as far as California.”
And I know he is glad. So it was settled then and there that Montana will be our destination.
* * * * *
Sunday, June 18.
We started very early this morning, as soon as light, about four o’clock. I think the most of the women were yet in bed. It was a glorious morning, and I did so enjoy my early ride on Dick. We had not been on the road very long when Frank joined me. I told him, “We had decided to go to Montana.”
He was silent a moment, then said, “It is the place to go. I do hope we can persuade Uncle Ezra to go there, too.”
“I hope he will decide to go with us, for it would be hard to part with all of you now. It would seem almost like leaving home again.”
We halted at nine o’clock, had breakfast at ten, started again at twelve. Stopped again at four, and are camping on Fremont’s Slough.
* * * * *
Monday, June 19.
We passed two graves this morning that have been made within a month. The first a man who shot himself accidentally three weeks ago. The other a woman, forty years old, who died one month ago to-day. As I stood beside the lonely graves, I thought of the tears that had been shed, the prayers that had been uttered, the desolation of heart that had been endured by those who had been obliged to go on and leave their loved ones here in this wilderness. How my heart ached for them. My heart went out in thanksgiving and praise to our Heavenly Father that there has been no serious sickness in all these trains with so many people. It is marvelous.
We are camped on the banks of the South Platte. The men have driven the stock across to an island. I do not know if it is because they are afraid of the Indians stampeding them, or that the grass is better. If there should be danger, I presume they would not tell us. There is a town of prairie dogs near; several of us went to make them a visit, but the boys had been there with their guns shooting at the little things, and frightened them so they would not come out, although we waited in silence until almost dark. I shall make another effort to see them very early in the morning before the boys are awake. I have heard they are early risers, that they come out to greet the rising sun. We met an acquaintance to-day—Will Musgrove—he is on his way to Central City, Colorado. He is night herder for a freight train. The most casual acquaintance seems like an especial friend, when we meet, away out here, so far from home, or anywhere else.