CHAPTER XI.
Out of Death Valley we surely were. To Rogers and I, the case seemed
hopeful, for we had confidence in the road and believed all would have
power to weather difficulties, but the poor women--it is hard to say
what complaints and sorrows were not theirs. They seemed to think they
stood at death's door, and would about as soon enter, as to take up a
farther march over the black, desolate mountains and dry plains before
them, which they considered only a dreary vestibule to the dark door
after all. They even had an idea that the road was longer than we told
them, and they never could live to march so far over the sandy, rocky
roads. The first day nearly satisfied them that it was no use to try,
Rogers and I counted up the camps we ought to reach each day and in this
way could pretty near convince them of time that would be consumed in
the trip. We encouraged them in every way we could; told them we had
better get along a little every day and make ourselves a little nearer
the promised land, and the very exercise would soon make them stronger
and able to make a full day's march.
John and I told them we felt in much better spirits now than we did when
we set out alone, and now that nothing but the arrows of an Indian could
stop us. We said to them. "We are not going to leave you two ladies out
here to die for there is not a sign of a grave to put you in,--" and it
was a pretty tough place to think of making one. We told them of the
beautiful flowery hillsides over the other side and begged them to go
over there to die, as it would be so much better and easier to perform
the last sad rites there instead of here on the top of the dismal
mountain.
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