A good kettleful of soup for breakfast, dried meat fixed in packages,
kegs and canteens filled with water, and we were ready for an advance.
There is one less ox to lead, and very little load for those we have,
still the load is all such poor weak fellows ought to bear. Old Crump
was not thus favored by a gradually lightened load. He bore the same
four children every day, faithfully, carefully, with never a stumble nor
fall, as though fully aware of the precious nature of his burden.
In this new march John and I took the oxen and pushed on as usual,
leaving the families to follow on, at a slower pace, the trail we made.
The trail was slightly inclined. The bushes stunted at the best, getting
smaller as we proceeded, and the horse bones, new and ancient are now
thickly scattered along the way. The soil is different from that we have
had. We can see the trail, winding gently here and there, swept clean by
the wind, and the surface is hard and good; but when the mule gets the
least bit off of it she sinks six inches deep into the soft sand, and
the labor of walking is immense. I stepped out to examine the peculiar
soil, and found it finer than superfine flour. It was evident that a
strong wind would lift it in vast clouds which might even darken the
sky, but we were fortunate in this respect, for during all the time we
were on this peculiar soil, there was no wind at all, and we escaped a
sand-storm, a sort of storm as peculiar to this region as are blizzards
to some of the states of the great west.
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