Mr. B. and L. say, "bad day to-morrow, more rain sure;" I consult my barometer and it indicates fair weather. If it is correct I will name it Vennor, if not I shall dub it Wiggins. Thermometer stands at 48°, think I had better walk and get warmed up; a heavy cloth suit, mohair ulster and gossamer is scarcely sufficient to keep the chilly wind out.
One mile further on and darkness overtakes us while sticking on the banks of Rock creek, a stream some larger than Willow creek, and bridged with poles for pedestrians, on which we crossed; but the oxen, almost tired out, seemed unequal for the pull up the hill. Mr. L. uses the whip, while Mr. B. pushes, and Mrs. G. and I stand on a little rock that juts out of the hill—first stone or rock seen since we entered the state, and pity the oxen, but there they stick. Ah! here is a man coming with an empty wagon and two horses; now he will help us up the hill. "Can you give me a lift?" Mr. L. asks. "I'm sorry I can't help you gentlemen, but that off-horse is terribly weak. The other horse is all right, but you can see for yourself, gentlemen, how weak that off-horse is." And away he goes, rather brisk for a weak horse. While we come to the conclusion that he has not been west long enough to learn the ways of true western kindness. (We afterwards learned he was lately from Pennsylvania.) But here comes Mr. Ross and Mr. Connelly who have walked all the way from Stuart. Again the oxen pull, the men push, but not a foot gained; wagon only settling firmer into the mud. The men debate and wonder what to do. "Why not unload the trunks and carry them up the hill?" I ask. Spoopendike like, someone laughed at my suggestion, but no sooner said than Mr. L. was handing down a trunk with, "That's it—only thing we can do; here help with this trunk," and a goodly part of the load is carried to the top of the hill by the men, while I carry the guns. How brave we are growing, and how determined to go west; and the oxen follow without further trouble.
When within a mile and a half of the river, those of us who can, walk, as it is dangerous driving after dark, and we take across, down a hill, across a little canyon, at the head of which stands a little house with a light in the window that looks inviting, but on we go, across a narrow channel of the river, on to an island covered with diamond willow bushes, and a few trees. See a light from several "prairie schooners" that have cast anchor amid the bushes, and which make a very good harbor for these ships of the west.
"What kind of a shanty is this?"
"Why that is a wholesale and retail store, but the merchant doesn't think worth while to light up in the evening."
On we walk over a sort of corduroy road made of bushes, and so tired I can scarcely take another step.
"Well, is this the place?" I asked as we stopped to look in at the open door of a double log house, on a company of people who are gathered about an organ and singing, "What a friend we have in Jesus."
"No, just across the river where you see that light."
Another bridge is crossed, and we set us down in Aunty Slack's hotel about 9 o'clock. Tired? yes, and so glad to get to somewhere.
Mr. John Newell, who lives near the Keya Paha, left Stuart shortly after we did, with Mrs. and Miss Lizzie, Laura, and Verdie Ross, in his hack, but soon passed us with his broncho ponies and had reached here before dark.