DANGERS OF THE ROCKIES.—PRAIRIE FIRES.—THE RETURN.—PORT ARTHUR.—MIGRANTS.
There is a great deal of snow in the Rockies. In June that snow begins to melt. The result is, a violent body of water rushes down, which makes the railway people very uncomfortable.
On Sunday I met the engine-driver of the train by which I was to travel east next morning. At Holt City it seems no one knows from what particular spot the train will start.
‘You won’t start without me?’ I said.
‘No; I will look to see whether you are on board.’
‘But,’ said I, ‘you must leave at five, whether I am on board or not.’
‘Oh! as to that,’ he said, ‘no one can make me start before I am ready. But,’ said he, ‘perhaps we may not get away at all. I don’t like the look of the bridge, and there is a deal of water about.’
I smiled incredulously. Had not I seen, only an hour before, with my own eyes, a special train arrive from the west filled with labourers and freight? If that could cross in safety, surely our lighter train could do the same.
Thus reasoning, I lay down with a light heart in my caboose, having invoked, not the saints, but every decent Christian I could find, to take care that I might be aroused at four p.m., in order that I might have a good wash before I started on my little run of 1,500 miles, as far as Port Arthur.
Just as I was falling into the arms of Morpheus, to speak poetically—a habit to which I was much given in my earlier days—a fellow-traveller came rushing into the caboose, saying timidly: