"Same here," asserted Harry. "How far to the mountains, do you reckon?"
"Better than a hundred miles, but we'll get there."
The next day the pilgrims from the Smoky Hill trail and the pilgrims from the Republican trail traveled on together, with every eye eagerly set ahead, for the first sight of the mountains.
"I see 'em! Hooray!
"There's the land o' gold, boys!"
"Those are the Rocky Mountains! We're almost through."
"They're awful small for their size, aren't they?" quavered a woman.
They did appear so. They were like a band of low hummocky clouds in the western horizon. But the next morning, when the outfits climbed over a gravelly ridge that grew a few pines, one after another they cheered joyfully again. Hats were waved, sunbonnets were flourished. The mountains seemed much closer—they loomed grandly in a semi-circle from south to north; their crests were white, their slopes were green and gray.
"Where's Pike's Peak?"
Everybody wanted to know that. The "Root Hog or Die" professor consulted his map, for information.