So it
is known that at least thirteen men perished in the country which has
well been named Death Valley.
People who have always been well fed, and have never suffered from
thirst till every drop of moisture seemed gone from the body, so they
dare not open their mouth lest they dry up and cease to breathe, can
never understand, nor is there language to convey the horrors of such a
situation. The story of these parties may seem like fairy fables, but to
those who experienced it all, the strongest statements come far short of
the reality. No one could believe how some men, when they are starving
take on the wild aspect of savage beasts, and that one could never feel
safe in their presence. Some proved true and kind and charitable even
with death staring them in the face, and never forgot their fellow men.
Some that seemed weakest proved strongest in the final struggle for
existence.
Early next morning before the sun rose they started to cross the snow,
leaving their comrade Robinson behind, rolled up in his blankets, taking
his everlasting sleep so far as the troubles of this world are
concerned. What the day would bring forth very few could have any idea.
Go on they must, and this direction seemed most promising. If the snow
should prove hard enough to hold up the oxen they could probably cross
before night, but if compelled to camp in the snow it was a doubtful
case for them.
The snow held them as they advanced on it, but grew a little softer as
the sun got higher.
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