It seems impossible human beings could eat such things, and yet this man told me it was true that the Indians gathered a fruit called service berries, crushed them into jam and mixed the pulp with grasshoppers that had been dried over the fire and then pounded to a powder.
He called the stuff "Indian fruit cake," and, much to my disgust, not only bought a generous portion, paying for it with needles, powder, and bullets, but actually ate the mixture. I could not bring myself even to look upon it, after knowing what it really was.
Once more we came upon the mountains after leaving the shores of Great Salt Lake, and again we climbed up the steep ascents, with all the oxen toiling at a single wagon, and then slipped down on the opposite side, until it seemed certain some terrible accident must befall.
A DESERTED VILLAGE
One night we came to another place much like the one we had called the Happy Valley, and there we found an Indian village of fifteen or twenty lodges, every one deserted, although we knew the people could not be far away, for fires were burning brightly in front of the dwellings, dogs were barking, and many willow baskets filled with service berries were standing about.
It was a beautiful spot for a home, and I could almost have wished father would settle there, rather than continue on over a trail which was as dangerous as the one spread out before us.
There were in the valley poplar and pine trees with many willows, and here and there a patch of sunflowers shining out from the surrounding green with a golden glory.
I had supposed our people would camp there; but instead of doing so they continued on, planning to spend the night on the higher land. When we were halfway up the ridge which led out from the valley, the Indians, whom we had evidently frightened, came out from their hiding places, whooping and shouting as if to scare us, although I saw no token that they were bent on doing us mischief.