Thursday, July 20.
The ground was covered with a white frost this morning, and it is
freezing cold. Mrs. Morrison and Frank are better; Delia’s mouth is
healing. Neelie continues to drag around; she will not acknowledge that
she is sick enough to go to bed, but she certainly looks sick. I wish
they would call Dr. Howard; somehow, I have more faith in him; perhaps
because he is older and more experienced.
We are on the banks of the North Platte; arrived about three o’clock,
did not stop for lunch at noon. We came ahead of the other trains,
which will be here to-night. We will have the privilege of crossing
first in the morning.
The men have taken the herds five miles away to get good feed. They are
in danger from Indians. The captain called for volunteers. My brothers
both offered to go, but the captain said, “Only one of Mrs. Raymond’s
boys must go.”
Hillhouse said he would be the one. He was on guard last night, too.
We are in no danger here, for there are several trains here now and
there will be more to-night. Oh, the anxious watching, the prayerful
longing for day that we must endure this night, because of loved ones
exposed to danger. What a precious privilege that we can go to the
Mercy-seat with the assurance that if we ask aright our petitions will
be granted. How do people live without Christ and a Mercy-seat? What
can they do, when suffering anxiety, grief, or bereavement, if they
cannot go to Jesus with their sorrows? Precious Saviour, what a refuge
in time of trouble, what a joy to carry everything to God in prayer.
The McMahan train is near. Dr. Howard has been here; he begged me to
let him see my diary. I asked to be excused.
* * * * *
Friday, July 21.
The night passed without alarm, and we are all here; I am thankful.
Some of the men in our train were afraid to risk fording the river,
and paid four dollars per wagon to be ferried over on a rickety old
ferryboat that looked more dangerous than driving over.
Hillhouse and Winthrop were both engaged with the ox-team, Winthrop
on the seat and Hillhouse riding Dick. When they drove into the river
I motioned to mother to keep quiet and drove the horse-team right in
behind them. The current is very swift; they had all they could do
to keep the oxen from going with the current, and did not know I had
followed them until they came out on an island in the middle of the
river. Hillhouse smiled a sickly little smile, and said, “You should
not have tried that.”
Dr. Howard stood near, holding his pony by the bridle. He complimented
me on my skill in driving, and said, “I saw you drive in that swift
and treacherous river with bated breath, but soon saw that you knew
what you were doing, yet I rode Joe in just behind you to be ready for
emergencies.”
“Thank you for your thoughtfulness. I will not ‘halloo until I am out
of the woods’--the other side is to be crossed yet.”
Hillhouse said, “You would better wait on the island, and I will come
back and drive your wagon over.”
But of course I could not do that, after all the complimenting I had
received. I drove in--with fear and trembling--for there lay a big
freight wagon upset in the middle of the stream. It was more difficult
than the first side, the banks higher and steeper, and the water
deeper. We got over without mishap; the doctor came on his pony just
behind us. I wandered off alone after lunch and climbed to the top
of a near-by mountain. I found there a large pyramid of loose stones
that looked as if they had been piled there by travelers, each one
contributing a stone.
I selected a snow-white stone from the mountain-side and added to the
pile. There is another town of wagons being made on the west side
of the North Platte. The wagons have been crossing all day, and are
crossing yet. Hundreds of wagons have been driven over that turbulent
and rushing river, and not a serious accident occurred.
I have been on the lookout for the Irvine train, but it is not here. I
think it is ahead of us, and we will not see the young ladies or Mr.
Reade again on this trip, yet as we are all going to Montana we may
perhaps meet again.