We expected to get some assistance from a man by the name of William Martin, whom we were acquainted with. He had been at Provo merchandising, but had moved to Denver.
On arriving in Denver and meeting Martin, we told him our situation. He very readily said we could have what we wanted, and asked how much we would need. I told him twenty-five dollars would answer. It was about noon and he said, "Wait and have some dinner, then you can go on."
He stepped out but returned in a few minutes, asking, "Whose fine mules are those under the shed?"
I replied, "They are ours."
He said, "They are fine mules; I will give you a good trade for them." And then offered us a pair of ponies and twenty-five dollars.
I told him they were all we had left of what we had earned during our trip; that we were anxious to get home as soon as possible, and that they would carry us better than the ponies would. I knew the ponies well that he offered us. He insisted on the trade. We declined as the mules were worth at least $400, while the ponies were not worth over $75. If he gave us the $25 difference he would still get at least $300 for nothing. Finally, when we would not trade, Martin said he had no money to loan.
He had a large provision store, and I said, "Then let us have a little provisions and we will go on."
He replied that he was selling on commission and could let nothing go without the money. If ever two men felt indignant we did. We had parted company with our friends, the two horsemen. They still had plenty of money. They doubtless would have given us some had we asked them, but we were sure of getting some from Martin. I also had several old acquaintances in Denver who, no doubt, would have helped us, but we felt now like asking no assistance from any person.
We had just forty cents and were four hundred miles from old Jack Robinson's camp at Bridger. We know he would not turn us away. My answer to Martin was "Bill Martin, you see these two mules; they are better animals than you ought to own. It is only four hundred miles to Jack Robinson's; they will carry us there in four days; we can starve that long and you can't have the mules. Good day."
We bought forty cents worth of cheap cakes and started out with the expectation of going hungry. As we crossed the bridge spanning the Arkansas river, the roads forked. We enquired of a lad which road to take naming our direction. He said either, but that the left hand road went out five miles to Jim Baker's ranch. Here was a chance. Jim Baker was an old friend that I had often met on the plains. I had taken care of his brother, when snow-blind, while we were at Devil's Gate, so we concluded to go there and see if Baker would be like Martin.