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Twelve miles of alternate riding and walking eastwardly from Ogden bring me to the entrance of Weber Canon, through which the Weber River, the Union Pacific Railroad, and an uncertain wagon-trail make their way through the Wahsatch Mountains on to the elevated table-lands of Wyoming Territory.
Sometimes, when a dissipated cloud tumbles its contents into the region, the Amargosa is filled bank full with water; but few prospectors have seen more than a trickling stream flowing in its bed. We turn our way out of the wagon-trail toward Funeral Range to find the canyon of Furnace Creek, and in time we are clambering up a narrow gulch between the multicolored strata of clay buttes.
He did not know how far Frances had succeeded in traveling with her "flare"; but he was quite sure that he had come more than a mile from the wagon-trail. He could soon see a broadening patch of burned-over prairie in the midst of the swirling flames and smoke.
Joanne gave him her hand, and for a moment MacDonald bowed his shaggy head over it. Five minutes later they were trailing up the rough wagon-road, MacDonald in the lead, and Joanne and Aldous behind, with the single pack horse between. For several miles this wagon-trail reached back through the thick timber that filled the bottom between the two ranges of mountains.
"Where you would like to go?" she asked. "The Concho?" Again he shook his head. "I can't. She questioned his hesitation with her eyes. "I'll tell you when when I feel better. Madre, I'm sick." "I know," she said. Then, turning to the driver, she gestured down the wagon-trail. They drove through the morning woodlands, swung to the east, and crossed the ford.
This child feels like helping them out of the scrape. What do you say, old hos?" "I think with you, my boy," replies Kilbuck, "and go in for following the wagon-trail and telling the poor critters that there's danger ahead of them." "What's your talk, stranger?" "I'm with you," answered the latter; and both follow quickly after La Bonte, who gallops away on the trail.
It will not take much expenditure to make that old wagon-trail into a good road. It has its faults. It goes down steep slopes on the second day out, the chuck-wagon got away, and, fetching up at the bottom, threw out Bill the cook and nearly broke his neck. It climbs like a cat after a young robin. It is rocky or muddy or both. But it is, potentially, a road.
It was decidedly warm the following Monday noon at Bonepile, and Wilson Jennings, his coat off, but wearing the fancy Mexican sombrero that the Bar-O cowmen had given him, sat in the open window to catch the breeze that blew through from the rear. From the window Wilson could not see the wagon-trail toward the hills to the west.
Not far from where the trail leads out of Crow Creek bottom on to the higher table-land, I find the grassy plain smoother than the wagon-trail, and bowl along for a short distance as easily as one could wish.
At first he heard only distant echoes of a short, muffled blow, irregularly repeated and seeming familiar to the ear. As he speculated upon what the sound might be, it grew gradually plainer and came seemingly nearer. He bent his eyes down the valley to the west and scanned the wagon-trail and the railroad track as far as he could in the dusk, but could see nothing.
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