The hours crept slowly on. The uneasy animals never ceased their walk backward and forward between the water and the wagons, uttering their discontent. Towards midnight, overcome by the fatigues of the day, I fell into a doze, and did not wake until called at three.
A breakfast similar to our supper was served, and we were ready for the road. The mules were harnessed while vigorously braying their protests against such ill usage, and, once under way, slowly drew the wagons to the summit of the divide between the Lithodendron and the Little Colorado, a distance of twelve miles.
I did not see Frank while overlooking the drawing out of the train, but gave myself no anxiety on his account, thinking he had accompanied the advance. We had proceeded about a mile when a corporal of the guard ran after me, and reported that the Arnolds were not hitching up. Halting the train, I rode back and found Brenda sitting by the road-side in tears.
"What is the matter, Miss Arnold?" I asked.
"Oh, it is something this time," she sobbed, "that even you cannot remedy."
"Then you think I can generally remedy things? Thank you."
"You have always helped us, but I do not see how you can now."
"What is the trouble, please?"
"Our poor oxen have worn their hoofs through to the quick. They were obliged to travel very fast yesterday, and over a flinty road, and their hoofs are worn and bleeding. Uncle says we must remain behind."
"Perhaps things are not as bad as you think," I said. "Let us go back and see."