Our animals were in a deplorable condition; and with the exception of a little flour, a small supply of dried meat, and a horse for Samson, Mr. Grant, the trader, had nothing to sell us. He told us, moreover, that before we reached Fort Boise, their next station, 300 miles further on, we had to traverse a great rocky desert, where we might travel four-and-twenty hours after leaving water, before we met with it again. There was nothing for it but to press onwards. It was too late now to cross the Sierra Nevada range, which lay between us and California; and with the miserable equipment left to us, it was all we could hope to do to reach Oregon before the passage of the Blue Mountains was blocked by the winter's snow.
Mr. Grant's warnings were verified to the foot of the letter.
Great were our sufferings, and almost worse were those of the poor animals, from the want of water. Then, too, unlike the desert of Sahara, where the pebbly sand affords a solid footing, the soil here is the calcined powder of volcanic debris, so fine that every step in it is up to one's ankles; while clouds of it rose, choking the nostrils, and covering one from head to heel. Here is a passage from my journal:
'Road rocky in places, but generally deep in the finest floury sand. A strong and biting wind blew dead in our teeth, smothering us in dust, which filled every pore.
William presented such a ludicrous appearance that Samson and I went into fits over it. An old felt hat, fastened on by a red cotton handkerchief, tied under his chin, partly hid his lantern-jawed visage; this, naturally of a dolorous cast, was screwed into wrinkled contortions by its efforts to resist the piercing gale. The dust, as white as flour, had settled thick upon him, the extremity of his nasal organ being the only rosy spot left; its pearly drops lodged upon a chin almost as prominent. His shoulders were shrugged to a level with his head, and his long legs dangled from the back of little "Cream" till they nearly touched the ground.'
We laughed at him, it is true, but he was so good-natured, so patient, so ******-minded, and, now and then, when he and I were alone, so sentimental and confidential about Mary, and the fortune he meant to bring her back, that I had a sort of maternal liking for him; and even a vicarious affection for Mary herself, the colour of whose eyes and hair - nay, whose weight avoirdupois - I was now accurately acquainted with.
No, the honest fellow had not quite the grit of a 'Leatherstocking.'
One night, when we had halted after dark, he went down to a gully (we were not then in the desert) to look for water for our tea. Samson, armed with the hatchet, was chopping wood.
I stayed to arrange the packs, and spread the blankets.
Suddenly I heard a voice from the bottom of the ravine, crying out, 'Bring the guns for God's sake! Make haste!
Bring the guns!' I rushed about in the dark, tumbling over the saddles, but could nowhere lay my hands on a rifle.
Still the cry was for 'Guns!' My own, a muzzle-loader, was discharged, but a rifle none the less. Snatching up this, and one of my pistols, which, by the way, had fallen into the river a few hours before, I shouted for Samson, and ran headlong to the rescue. Before I got to the bottom of the hill I heard groans, which sounded like the last of poor William. I holloaed to know where he was, and was answered in a voice that discovered nothing worse than terror.
It appeared that he had met a grizzly bear drinking at the very spot where he was about to fill his can; that he had bolted, and the bear had pursued him; but that he had 'cobbled the bar with rocks,' had hit it in the eye, or nose, he was not sure which, and thus narrowly escaped with his life. I could not help laughing at his story, though an examination of the place next morning so far verified it, that his footprints and the bear's were clearly intermingled on the muddy shore of the stream. To make up for his fright, he was extremely courageous when restored by tea and a pipe.
'If we would follow the trail with him, he'd go right slick in for her anyhow. If his rifle didn't shoot plum, he'd a bowie as 'ud rise her hide, and no mistake. He'd be darn'd if he didn't make meat of that bar in the morning.'
