Kate Mulhall

The women took advantage of the stop-over to do their washing near the river crossing; and one of the men was bagging some of the numerous rabbits in the valley. Andrew spent most of his time entertaining others, as usual whenever opportunity offered; two of the horses had left the range and returned for a bit of bread or lick of salt. Ben was busily occupied with the cares of the camp, and planning the next stage of the trip.

On the following day two Indians were seen passing on horseback along the top of the low bluff; but nothing was thought of it, as there had been no trouble with them for several months, or for a thousand miles along the Trail. A small train of wagons crossed the river during the day and continued on to the west; soon afterward an Indian was seen fording it at the same place and riding furiously toward the east. About two hours later the same Indian returned, his pony exhibiting all the signs of continued hard riding; after what followed it is certain that he was a scout sent up the Trail to ascertain whether or not another train was approaching.

During the afternoon two men from a near-by camp went out to milk their cows and look after the oxen; and to their surprise were unable to find either. Following on up the valley they soon came upon sure signs of hurried travel, and realized that the cattle had been stampeded from some cause not then apparent; after continuing along the Trail until near dark they were compelled to return slowly to the camp.

To their amazement they found it in utter disorder, and without a living soul. Wagons had been run together and partially burned; remnants of the outfits were scattered in every direction; remains of dead bodies were heaped upon the fire and in part consumed. The dreadful fact dawned upon them that the camp had been raided by the Indians during their absence, and their comrades massacred.

Linda, who had found a near-by refuge, remained in hiding until she heard voices in her own tongue, and then came out to the desolated camp. It was too dark to recognize the mutilated bodies, but by a token on the remains Linda discovered that Ben was one of the slain, and immediately lost consciousness. The horrors of that long night are beyond description, as the fears and alarms of a lifetime hovered over the heads of the sleepless survivors.

SCENE AFTER THE MASSACRE, AS DESCRIBED ON THE OPPOSITE PAGE

But the first duty was to look after the living and let the dead rest where they were. One of the men waded the river and started eastward on the Trail in search of aid, which he fortunately met within a few miles. Couriers were dispatched east and west to warn the emigrants and urge volunteers to assemble and punish the Indians.

In the early morning food and clothing were delivered to the stricken victims, and soon a train arrived to supply physical comforts to them. A hundred miles of the Trail were traversed by couriers, and before night a large number of armed men had assembled; time pressed, and none was lost.

During the day the trail of the oxen was anxiously located, so it could be followed at night. Each rider carried his rations in his pouch, or in packages strapped to his saddle; there was no thought of bedding or camp equipment, as they intended to march all night in the hope of overtaking the Indians. It is wonderful what a body of resolute men can accomplish when all are of one mind.

The trail, which led up the valley for some miles, was easily and rapidly followed in the night; on the table-lands it was dim, but recognized without much difficulty. At break of day a secluded spot was selected, the horses tethered and silence enjoined upon every one. A cautious reconnaissance had discovered signs of Indians; at midnight the march was resumed, and their camps sighted at daylight.

Each became his own captain as they descended in fury upon the slumbering Indians, and during the mêlée that followed neither age nor sex was spared; women and children were ruthlessly shot down, and no prisoners taken. The oxen and all except one of the cows and two of the horses were recovered, but Andrew's mules could not be found. Orders were then given to assemble all the Indian horses possible, and shoot them on the spot.

The chastisement was swift, severe and long remembered by the remnant of the band. While this did not bring the dead to life or heal the wounds of the living, some reprisal was necessary to deter the savages from again molesting emigrant trains following the Trail on peaceful missions of finding homes for themselves and their families. It was cruel; but the emergency called for desperate measures.

After the massacre Andrew, Jennie and Margie wandered off listlessly on the Trail leading west, and passing scouts found them later a short distance from the camp. The Indians were terrified at their first sight of a negro, evidently believing Andrew to be an emissary of the evil spirit who could bring dire disaster upon them for any harm done to him; so he escaped.[1]

As Andrew returned to camp, the shock of the disaster seemed to awaken him to new duties of life; and a vision opened up before him. "Massa Ben" was gone, and only he was now left of the men in the original party. Up to this time he had looked to others for direction, leaning upon them as a child upon a parent; but now he must act for and depend upon himself. Without realizing the change, Andrew became virtual head of the remnant of the party, and quietly assumed the responsibility.

His first act upon returning to camp was to look after the comfort of "Missus Linda" and provide a place where she might rest, while Jennie prepared some nourishment for her. Others had attempted the gruesome task of separating and identifying the dead; but they were so mutilated and in such a confused mass that all were finally buried in one grave.

Andrew's grief at the funeral was inconsolable; falling on his knees at the grave, he offered up a prayer expressing resignation to God's will and inspiring hopes for the future, that touched the heart of every one. While a surprise to all, it was comforting, particularly to Linda; Andrew's thoughts seemed to be centered mainly on his young mistress, and he spared no effort to encourage and assist her.

The burial of the victims preceded by only one day the revenge upon the Indians. Echoes of boasts from the returning party that none had been spared, children and mothers slain and the wounded dispatched without mercy, troubled Linda's gentle spirit. She could not participate in the elation of the men, and recalled what Ben had said of the "irrepressible conflict" between the Indians and the whites, as well as Andrew's prayer to "look for relief from God Almighty," as the fervent negro had expressed it.

An exact account of the massacre will never be known, for none were left to tell the story. When the attack was made Linda and the three other women of the train were washing at the river, only a few hundred yards from the camp, though out of sight from it. Hearing the guns and seeing many armed Indians near-by, all rushed for the brush and high grass, hiding as best they could.

Immediately after the interment Linda retired, supperless and disconsolate, to the temporary camp Andrew had prepared for her. The situation was indeed very desperate. Her brothers had gone on to California, the last hired man had left them three weeks before, and her husband was dead.

Deep grief, prolonged fatigue and loss of sleep finally overcame her, and she sank into a slumber where sorrow was temporarily forgotten. Morning brought partial relief; and Linda could then fix her mind on the emergency that confronted them. As soon as Jennie knew her "missus" was awake she brought some food, of which Linda partook sparingly, although it was the first for about thirty-six hours.

The wagon and yokes had been burned, and the clothing destroyed or carried off with the remainder of the outfit; nothing was left but the horses, the oxen and one cow. Linda had the helpless colored man, as she still thought of Andrew, as well as his wife and child, to consider; but a new courage took possession of her mind and drove away despair. "I have yet something to live for," she said to herself.

Summoning Andrew to her bedside, Linda was surprised to note his confident demeanor. "Yes, missus, I kin drive the oxen, I knows I kin." "But, Andrew, we have no wagon." "Yes, missus, there's a wagon down by the ford; I seen it this mornin." When reminded that the wagon didn't belong to her, Andrew responded, "Everybody takes a wagon standing on the road, if he thinks it better than hizzen."

Linda remembered the accepted practice of the Trail that abandoned vehicles, of which there were a great number, became common property; and followed Andrew to the ford to see the wagon. "Yuse jest take that; I kin drive it, I know I kin," Andrew confidently reiterated. "Yuse kin take my wagon (which had not been destroyed by the Indians), Jennie kin ride the mare and take care of the loose oxen and the cows, and Margin kin ride in this wagon with me." Evidently Andrew had been thinking and planning while Linda slept; the new experience awakened his latent abilities.

Fortunately a considerable part of their money was sewed in a dress she wore; and some hidden under a false bottom of the wagon-box was recovered, much to her relief. Linda and Andrew managed to put together an outfit enabling them to resume the journey. He developed as the necessity required, Jennie soon became more than a dependent, and even Margie found incidental ways to be helpful.

Several hundred miles of the Trail were still ahead of them; but each day brought new experiences and increased confidence. Linda's strength gradually returned; and Andrew proved that he could drive an ox-team as well as play the violin, which had been laid aside unused since the fatal Sunday when "Massa Ben" had been killed. His whole ambition centered in the welfare of his "missus," and he felt an obligation to see her safely in the cabin home. As they neared the end of the journey, Linda became still more self-reliant. She was surprised at the improvement in Andrew and Jennie, and finally in herself; and realized in a still larger measure that she had something more to live for.

Just seven months and one day after she and Ben drove out of the Shaeffer door-yard in Missouri, Linda drew up unannounced in front of the cabin which he had built on his claim in the Oregon Country. It was late in the evening, while the Squire and the girls were at supper. Hearing a noise outside, Mulhall arose and as he opened the door Linda was just reaching out to knock for admission; catching sight of her, the girls screamed with delight and in their hasty greeting nearly upset the table.

"Where's Ben?" was the first question the Squire asked; but quickly divining from Linda's countenance that something had happened, the question was not repeated. He then turned to greet Andrew and Jennie, and after them Margie. Leaving Linda with the girls, Mulhall accompanied Andrew to care for the teams, and then learned the dreadful news; thus he knew there could now be no joyful reunion, and hastened back as soon as possible.

The sight of the cabin that Ben had built for their home, and the conveniences he had arranged inside, revived the dormant grief within Linda's breast until she sank unconscious and helpless to the cabin floor. Poor woman! She had fortified herself with a resolution to be brave; but her emotion would not down, and relief came only in unconsciousness. When she awoke the Squire refrained from asking any questions about the tragedy, but talked about the country of which she had seen so little, and discussed plans for the future.

Next morning when Linda's calmness had returned, she voluntarily told Mulhall the whole story as they wandered over the extensive and beautiful Donation claim, a mile in length and half a mile in width. It was an ideal place for a home, nearly all fertile prairie with a clump of timber in one corner some distance from the cabin, while a rivulet of pure water fed by springs on the claim flowed through the land. Small wonder that Ben should have written to her so enthusiastically about their future home; or that he braved so much to reach it with her.

He looked forward to a bright future spent in developing and embellishing this choice tract of land in a salubrious climate, with the assistance of the young wife whom he adored. But the treacherous savages in the wilds of what is now part of the State of Idaho put a cruel end to his joys and hopes. Unfortunate man! But not the only one, for many like him met a similar fate on the Oregon Trail.

Craig, who had never before seen Linda, came the following Sunday, and was fairly stunned when told of the disaster. He loved Ben for the many good traits of his character, and was drawn closer to him through their mutual adventures. "My lady," he said in a broad Scotch brogue, "you shall have the cabin and all there is in it; and I will move the line twenty rods away."

He added something about being able to secure a full claim for himself, as there was still vacant land adjacent; but made no mention of the fact that the new boundary would make his own less valuable. It did not matter very much, for he had long thought that Ben should come into the ownership of both claims, a mile square in the great fertile valley. There were many instances in which the earlier settlers had taken up that amount of land in their own right, under the law as at first passed; but later settlers were restricted to half that area.

Craig at once had a new cabin built to comply with the legal requirements of his own residence; and then without either ostentation or Linda's knowledge, had his will re-drawn in her favor instead of Ben's, as the first one read. We are not sure that Ben knew of the first; both acts were characteristic of Craig's modesty, forethought and generosity.

Andrew wanted very much to see "Massa Pelton," but hesitated to leave Linda; he could not tell which he loved best, his old master or the new missus. Both had been good to him, which was more than he could say about some others of the white race.

Great numbers, perhaps a majority, of the early settlers in the Oregon Country had come from slave States, bringing prejudices against the black man so intense that at first no negro could live in their midst under pain of the whipping post. Unbelievable! the reader will exclaim—but yet authentic history. The law had been passed by the Provisional Government under the stimulus of temporary and unreasonable excitement, and without due consideration or deliberation; it was never enforced and soon repealed.

Linda asked the Squire if he thought Pelton would consent to have Andrew and Jennie stay with her through the winter; but at the moment Mulhall considered it unlikely. "Won't I have time to write him before you go with Andrew?" she asked. "I'll wait till you do," the Squire answered, as he could see the necessity of help for the lone widow, though he didn't yet know the principal reason.

Linda wrote not to Isaac, but to Kate. After telling her of the tragedy, she explained that she was looking forward to another one to live for, which explained why she so much wanted Jennie to be with her. When Kate told Pelton of the special reason he said, "God bless her, yes! I would almost say you should also go and be with her." But Kate had her own household and their own little boy to care for.

Squire Mulhall was reluctant to leave for home, as he had planned to do on Ben's arrival; in fact had about made up his mind to stay. But the girls must be taken back before school opened; and he did not see how it could be managed unless he made the trip with them, even if he returned at once to the Hardy cabin. Imagine his surprise when, two days after Linda received Kate's letter telling her that Andrew and Jennie could remain with her, Pelton knocked at the door and greeted the astonished Squire in the cabin.

Isaac explained that he wanted to see his former slaves so badly that, over-night, he concluded to make the trip; besides Kate had a small package to send to Linda. He instinctively knew also that the Squire would want to stay longer with her; so on his return he would take the girls back in time for school. Andrew fairly shouted with joy at the sight of his old master; Jennie was no less jubilant, but had a different way of showing it; not until sleep overtook them, could either restrain their long pent-up feelings.

The two men counselling together that night agreed upon a course of action—first, that with Linda's consent an addition would be built to the cabin, and a one-room cabin put up for Andrew; second, that Pelton would return home immediately, taking the girls to his home until Kate could make suitable arrangements for them in their own home in the village near the school; and third, that the Squire should stay with Linda for an indefinite time, or at least until after the approaching event that was to mean so much for her.

It required only one week to have Andrew's one-room cabin ready to move into, and not much longer to complete the addition to the main dwelling, more than doubling its rooming capacity. Meanwhile Isaac had returned home with the girls ready for school. The two men wanted to build a more pretentious residence, but Linda said she preferred to live in the humble one that Ben had built with his own hands.

The little conveniences that he had provided seemed doubly precious in her eyes; every shelf and cooking utensil, the sheet iron stove and even the cups he had used all seemed treasures to her. Having been planned and built to accommodate Craig as well as Ben, the cabin was commodious and very comfortable. She did want an open fireplace, that she might enjoy the cheerful glow of the evening fire and the pure-health giving air; so a large fireplace was built in it.

* * * * * * * * *

The Squire had been busy during the summer, and raised a bounteous crop on the fresh plowed virgin soil; to protect it during the winter he had erected a "post-barn" large enough to shelter all the stock and store the provender. Trunks of beautiful young timber growths up to a hundred feet in length and practically any size desired, were easily obtainable. A post-barn was constructed by planting posts of this timber deep in the ground to support a roof, using the ground as a floor; with a shelter on the windward side, stock would be comfortable in the open air of the mild Oregon winter.

Andrew was happy in the thought of staying with Linda, without expecting compensation for his labor; a wage was something foreign to his mind. He was denied the privilege of owning a home in his own right; and what was the use of earning wages, when he could not enforce collection in courts closed to him? But these things did not disturb him, as he lived in an atmosphere of love for his master and missus, Jennie and Margie, and was happy.

December had come, and still the flowers remained in bloom and the grass green; Christmas was approaching, and the Squire said they ought to celebrate. He hoped to divert Linda's mind from her great loss; but was puzzled how to do so. His first thought was to make a present to her, though uncertain what would be the best selection.

Linda did not enter into the spirit of the suggested festivities—not that she was brooding over her affliction, for she had regained her cheerfulness. When Christmas was only three days away, and before the Squire had made up his mind about the present and the celebration, a boy of nine pounds appeared in the cabin; and all agreed that his name should be Benjamin.

Kate—hereafter Mrs. Pelton now that she is a mother—was delighted when she heard that Linda also had a boy; no trace of jealousy tinged her thought. Isaac, her own little son, was the brightest and cutest baby in all the world; there could be no rival to him, and nothing would excite the remotest feeling of envy. Sincere congratulations were sent by Mr. and Mrs. Pelton to Mrs. Hardy with a substantial gift for Benjamin, "the future protector of his mother and a joy forever."

From some unexplained cause, both mothers felt that the two babes were to be drawn close together in the experiences of life, as their parents had been. Mrs. Pelton, whose wishes seemed almost prophetic, freely communicated these thoughts to Mrs. Hardy—not Linda any more. Prophecies of later days, like those of olden times, are often remarkably fulfilled.

The two "babes in the woods," we might almost literally say, grew and thrived amazingly under the best maternal care and in the healthful environment of pure air and mild climate. Mulhall zealously guarded the supply of pure milk and food for the household, and looked after the little one with an almost paternal affection. After putting it off as long as possible, he reluctantly informed Mrs. Hardy that he must soon leave for his own home, and at the same time lessened her anxieties by saying that he would provide for her financial needs.

Pelton had reached his own conclusion that Ben Hardy's widow needed Andrew more than he; and wrote that the colored man could remain with her a year or longer—practically without limit of time. That was a sacrifice, as Isaac had planned to have his former slaves near-by, where he could make their advancing years comfortable and happy; but was now convinced that Andrew and Jennie would be about as content where they were as in his own home, and, realized that they would greatly assist Mrs. Hardy. A second letter, received soon after father Mulhall arrived home, so informed Mrs. Hardy, to her great joy and relief; she often wondered if it would ever be possible to repay this great kindness, forgetting that Pelton was already rewarded by the consciousness of having contributed materially to the welfare and happiness of others.

It seemed to the parents an incredibly short time before the "babes" of the two households became school children. A few years later they were taking courses in the University, and grew into manhood—the pride of their elders and an honor to the State which had been developed out of the region in which they were born. Gradually, too, the parents in each family realized that they had passed middle life, and were approaching old age.

Their eyes were dimmed and hearing somewhat dulled, but their minds were still clear and active; aspirations, hopes and even ambitions remained with them, while reflections upon past achievements and some failures (the ripe experience to which there is no short-cut) brought deeper thought and greater happiness into their lives. In both the Pelton and Hardy families, the results of successful endeavor, intellectual development and independence were manifest in an unusual degree.

Kate—Mrs. Pelton—had changed into a motherly stature so attractive to her husband and all friends; the active, graceful movement and the fire of her eye were retained, her complexion was still ruddy, and there was a sprinkling of grey hairs to lighten the color of the whole. Pelton continued in excellent health; the active outdoor life on his farm had developed a sturdy frame, strengthened his muscles and quickened his mind. Like many other pioneers with great opportunities before them, he had prospered beyond expectation, and was in affluent circumstances.

Ben Hardy had located on a Donation claim of three hundred and twenty acres of such intrinsic value that if he had lived, the rise of land values in a country of ever-increasing population and prosperity would have made him a wealthy man. When the Donation Act under which he took up his claim was passed, the law provided that half of it should be held by the wife in her own right.

Before that date, and for many years afterward, a wife could not legally inherit or hold property in fee simple except in the Oregon Country, under this special act. Incredible as it may seem, she was also denied the right to control her children, sue in the courts, speak in public or enter schools of higher education.

So when Linda became Ben's wife, she had no property rights except insofar as this special law gave her an equal share in the land upon which they had settled. Hardy did not live to return to the claim, but after years of doubt and delay, his widow came into ownership of half (160 acres) in her own right; and by descent her son received the other half.

The experiences of these years, and considerable of what may properly be called semi-litigation, developed Mrs. Hardy's latent ability to cope with business problems as they arose; so she prospered and became known as a woman of executive ability. It was in memory of the husband and for the welfare of her boy, the younger Benjamin, that she resolved that life was worth living; and right well did she prove the correctness of the resolution.

Things did not run smoothly during the whole of the long period. Pelton had been compelled to make one trip to the old home in Missouri to adjust some business matters. Mrs. Hardy sustained a loss in consequence of a heavy snowfall, and met some reverses of minor importance; but the steady development of the country and consequent increase of land values, proved of great advantage to them both.

[1] A similar instance is recorded in the case of York, the slave of Captain Lewis of the Lewis & Clark Expedition, upon whom the Indians looked with superstitious awe mingled with terror.

CHAPTER VII

LINDA'S HOPE NEVER REALIZED; DEATH OF DAVID MULHALL; CRAIG'S PROMISE REMEMBERED; LESSONS FROM A TRAIL-MAKING OUTFIT; DECISION TO MAKE THE TRIP.

The thread of our story is now resumed at a later date, and in a new century. Linda Shaeffer, as we first knew her, for many years Ben's widow, has now passed the meridian of life; her only child, Benjamin, has grown into manhood and assumed the cares of the farm and home. Meanwhile the Pacific Northwest has made extraordinary progress, with an increase in population and improvements in transportation almost completely changing the old-time pioneer environment.

In the cool evening of a midsummer day, Linda Hardy was sitting in front of the ivy covered cabin, whose roof was completely overspread with the bright green of the beautiful climbing vine. Nearly half of the front side was likewise covered with growths from the same vigorous stalk at the corner of the cottage; and the foliage on the roof had reached to the farther end of the cabin, two rods or more from the roots that supported and gave life to it. The sultry atmosphere was filled with perfume from a row of sweet peas that lined the front of a small but well-kept flower garden, mingled with aroma from a choice variety of roses in bloom, while sweet clover and various other flowers added to the pleasant fragrance afloat in the air.

A young man with a glow of health in his countenance was leaning against the wall of the cabin, with his feet on the rung of the chair, and a book which he had been reading open upon his knees. In an abstracted mood he suddenly closed the book, placed his feet upon the ground and for a moment sat upright, looking out into space as if unconscious of his surroundings. Recovering himself and looking straight at the matron sitting nearby, he uttered one word, "Mother!"

"What is it, Benjamin?"

Only partly aroused from his reverie, he seemed unprepared to say just what was on his mind; so made no immediate or direct reply.

For some years, the youthful Benjamin Hardy had hoped that some day he could visit the spot where the remains of his father had been left; but any reference to the tragedy seemed always to greatly disturb his mother. He had the subject of a proposed trip to the grave on his mind when, half abstractedly, he had first spoken to her; now fully awake, he hesitated to continue.

"What is it, Benjamin?" repeated by his mother prompted him to go farther than he had attempted heretofore.

"Do you believe, mother, if you were to go out on the Trail you could identify the spot where father was killed?" he asked rather hesitatingly.

"I know I could—the river crossing, the low bluff and the narrow strip of valley are all there. I can see them in my mind as plain as the day it occurred."

"But there are probably several crossings now; how could you identify the particular one?"

"It was where the Trail crossed and was worn two or three feet deep on both banks of the river; Ben, I have seen where it was worn down ten feet deep. Yes, I could find the crossing, and even the spot where your father was buried."

"Mother, I have long wanted to go, find the grave and put a monument on the spot."

There was a long silence during which both seemed to be pondering the subject. The mother spoke first, "Kate has several times written that she would like to visit her mother's grave and wants me to go along; but that is nearly a thousand miles, I should judge, beyond where your father was buried."

As had been the case before, the conversation ended without reaching any conclusion. Years passed, and from one cause or another, the journey to visit the grave of Benjamin Hardy, away out on the sage-brush plains, was not undertaken.

Finally, when the Pelton family and Aunt Sarah were about ready to make the long-anticipated trip to the grave of Catherine Mulhall near the summit of the Rocky Mountains, and sent an invitation to Linda to join the party, she had to sorrowfully decline. For some time her health had not been good; in fact, she had become a prematurely broken-down woman without any apparent cause, unless it was the silent grief gnawing so many years at her heart.

She was never able to revisit the scene of the tragedy where the young husband whom she adored had been ruthlessly slain by the bloodthirsty savages; but could not forget the cruel blow fate had dealt her, and often thought how the bright prospects and hopes of her young life had been so irretrievably shattered. Though absent in the flesh, her spirit was ever hovering over the grave by the river.

Isaac Pelton enjoyed doing things, and from the day when he selected a tract for his home until the final call, he was a busy man. He had a worthy helpmate in Kate, mistress of the household, who was as busy in the cabin as he was in the field. After the birth of their eldest child, a new purpose in life—a bond of union bringing higher aims and ambitions—opened before them; both enjoyed excellent health and were supremely happy and contented.

Their thoughts centered on the baby—Isaac Pelton, Jr., and heir to their estate. Both lovingly watched his growth from day to day and were well repaid, for the boy grew rapidly in health and vigor inherited from his parents and aided by the healthful climate and nourishing food of the frontier farm.

It was before the time of the transcontinental railroads, and the markets of the world had not yet been opened to that region by the steamship lines that came later; so the country developed slowly. The mails were tardy in reaching them, but the few letters were as welcome and interesting as if delivered the day before or even a fortnight earlier; and the current literature of the day supplied by the newspapers of the period, was abundant and furnished subjects for serious thought. When the steamers were delayed by storms or accidents, sometimes missing connections that made letters and newspapers two or three weeks late, plenty of topics were open for study that had only a passing reading before.

The newspapers occupied the field later taken by the conservative magazines; the common practice of re-reading articles developed topics for speculative thinking and deep study as interesting and often more instructive than when fresh from the mails with only a light reading. Neither Isaac nor Kate had received more than a common school education, which was all that was expected in their childhood days. Little did they realize how they had acquired a "higher education" in the broad and thorough school of active life; but such was the accomplished fact with many pioneers of their day.

Pelton never tired of taking their little boy on his knee, and reading aloud while the mother plied the needle on their garments, or knitted evenings for companionship as well as to provide them with comfortable clothing. Another stranger came into their household; and to the great joy of the mother, it was a girl. "Now we're even," said Kate; "and let us call the little one Catherine."

She never forgot the grave high upon the mountains, the scene of the burial of her mother Catherine, or the planting of the little tree upon it; and always cherished loving thoughts of her. Sarah, one of the twin sisters, often talked to Kate about it and recalled Craig's well remembered words, "I'll mark your mother's grave so you can find it the longest day you live," which had sunk deep into her heart and kept alive the desire to revisit the sacred spot.

Time passed and another child—a boy—came; Isaac said the name should be Adam to perpetuate the memory of his own father, Adam Pelton. Next a girl was born to them; and Kate selected the name Sarah, after her sister who faithfully administered to the wants of father David Mulhall to the last days of his life.

There were now in the Pelton household two boys and two girls, each in time to share in the intense love of their parents, and receive as much care and attention as the first-born. It was in every respect an ideal family, held in high esteem by all who dwelt in the neighborhood.

Isaac and Kate had long wanted the Squire to come and share the comforts and joys of their household; but he was reluctant to give up his own home, and hesitated until the unexpected call came. "He just went to sleep," said Sarah, who watched by his bedside, and died without a struggle, beloved by his children, respected by all who knew him, honored by his business associates and the church to which he belonged. Sarah, who had never married, soon left the village homestead to live with her sister Kate, and was a welcome addition to the Pelton household.

As time passed, Sarah's thoughts would revert to her mother's grave, and the words of Douglas Craig kept echoing in her ears. Even in her dreams the fond hope of revisiting that well-remembered spot kept recurring, and strengthening the resolution that some day and somehow she would realize the hope of making the long journey to where the little pine was planted and the grave marked by a wagon-tire.

Isaac Pelton, Jr. was a precocious child, and in his father's mind was destined to be a distinguished citizen of the Republic. He did come to honorable manhood, married early and made business connections that called him to a foreign land; but died in middle age, without returning to America.

His sister Catherine married young, raised a family of six children and following in her mother's footsteps, filled an honored place in the community. While experiencing more of the hardships of pioneer or rather frontier life, she was uncomplaining and happy. Adam and Sarah, both unmarried, remained at home with their parents, Isaac and Kate—now "the old folks."

During the lapse of years, while the events recorded in this volume were passing, a great change had taken place in nearly all the world's affairs. From a retrospective view, the transformation in the facilities and conveniences of life and habits of the people, the advances in the arts and sciences, and growth of religion and political freedom in the period from the burial of Catherine Mulhall on the high mountains, to the arrival of the pilgrimage at her grave, was greater than in the preceding thousand years.

Within that time, a great Civil War had been fought and the Union preserved; slavery had been abolished in name, and finally in fact. After the Emancipation Proclamation, no one could any longer place men, women and children on the auction block like cattle, sheep or any other chattel. This was but one step in the great drama of which it was a part, though the United States had become known throughout the world as the land of the free, which it was in comparison with the majority of other countries.

Lincoln, the Great Emancipator, had been assassinated, but his noble acts and the cruel manner of his death had enshrined him in the hearts of the liberty-loving people of the world. Religious progress was no less pronounced than political, though not by legal enactments. In the beginning of the period here recorded, many orthodox ministers taught that all who did not believe in the tenets of their church were doomed to everlasting punishment in a lake of fire, portraying a God of vengeance, not of love—driving people into the church through fear and not from motives of righteousness.

A great step forward was the establishment of a uniform common school system, soon to become free; though crude at the beginning, it contained the germ of the educational development prevailing at the end of the period. The marvelous progress in the arts and sciences is beyond question the most far-reaching of all, medical discovery increasing the average span of life from thirty-four to forty-five years by conquering the plagues or epidemics, preventing the spread of violent diseases and reducing infant mortality in amazing proportions.

Applications of electricity for power and light have advanced civilization in many ways; but we are too near to that era to see it in correct perspective. The discovery and rapid improvement of internal combustion motors brought the automobile to the state of a practical vehicle during the period just before the long-anticipated trip to the grave.

Sarah Mulhall, who never forgot the words of Douglas Craig spoken to her when in deep grief beside the freshly made grave of her mother, the little tree, the rose bush and the flowers planted there, or the inscribed half buried wagon-tire, assured her sister Kate—Mrs. Pelton—that she could locate the spot. The North Star, the rift in the mountains and the marks on the trail would be her guides to it. She was possessed of a competence, more than needed for comfort during a long life; and was willing to expend any necessary amount to reach the sacred spot and erect a monument to the memory of their mother.

* * * * * * * * *

About this time an elderly man who had been among the pioneers of 1852, drove slowly over the old Trail, erecting monuments as he progressed to preserve its identity, and to perpetuate the memory of the unknown dead along the way. Upon completion of the Oregon Short Line R.R., paralleling much of it, the original track had been abandoned in some places, and became known to many as the "lost trail." A national interest had been aroused, and two or three of the States through which it passes had taken measures to aid the elderly man's work.

Isaac Pelton and Kate often contemplated the possibility of visiting the grave of her mother, and like Sarah, planned to do so. But while their family was being raised, and afterward when the children were attending school, circumstances always seemed to postpone the trip.

Besides, Sarah could not leave her father who wanted very much to go with them, but was prevented by the hand of time on his shoulders. If the automobile had come twenty years earlier, the Squire and Sarah could and would have done so; but the long journey with an ox-team, or even with a horse and carriage was thought too much for his strength, and he died without undertaking it.

Adam Pelton, the second son, was of an adventurous nature and had traveled in foreign lands as well as extensively in his own; he was in the prime of life and in good health, a thorough mechanic with experience in repairing automobiles. Returning to the old homestead after a long absence, he noticed his father's whitened locks, and saw that his steps were no longer firm. His mother had changed comparatively little, though now approaching three score years and ten.

After passing some weeks at home, consulting with his aunt Sarah and observing the health of his father and mother, he believed they would be benefited by a trip away from the homestead over the old Trail to the grave of his grandmother. "It would be nice to make that trip next summer, father," Adam said one day while they were strolling over the farm. "You would not need to turn your hand over to do a thing; sister Sarah says she could drive one of the automobiles, if we didn't go too far in a day."

Adam then counselled with his father, mother and Aunt Sarah, and near the end of the talk the mother said, "I'm ready to go; and now what do you say, father?"

"I'll think it over tonight," Pelton responded. Aunt Sarah spoke up, "I'm ready to go, Adam is also, and sister—here's three to one; let's make it unanimous."

For once Pelton wavered; he wanted to go, but questioned in his own mind whether he was physically able to stand the trip. "Well, I'll go, unless Dr. Marshall advises against it," he replied, which, they all knew the doctor would not; and so the momentous decision that the trip would be made in the spring, when the maple trees were in full leaf, was reached.

Next morning at the breakfast table everyone was cheerful, and they began planning the outfit to convey them, discussing what they would take along, when they would start and about how long it would take. Adam said it would require two automobiles at least, and perhaps three would be better. "What would you want three automobiles for?" his sister Sarah asked in a rather derisive tone.

"The third one to carry the camp outfit," Adam suggested and added, "we have three elderly people to care for, you know." "Why not build a wagon-box on the running-gears of an automobile like the one that went over to mark the Trail?" Sarah responded in real earnest. She had been reading about the elderly man's trip in a wagon-box on an automobile, where he had a cook-stove, ate his frugal meals, and had room for all his outfit, including a bed; and thought it a jolly good idea.

"Well, you may laugh if you please," she said to Adam, who at first was not favorable to the idea, "but there's more in it than you at first imagine. He had springs to the seat, which could be removed when he wanted to make the bed, and slept nice and dry away from the lizards, ticks and fleas we hear about." Sarah had read the story how at one place the fleas had attacked Mrs. Whitman[1] in such numbers as to blacken her dress and fairly crazed the good lady.

Nevertheless Adam could not refrain from a hearty laugh at the odd expression, "wagon-box on the running gear of an automobile," to the annoyance of his sister, who well knew of the word "chassis" as applied to motor cars. But an old-time wagon-box as an automobile top appealed to her imagination, and she carried the simile further in her mind to the wagon instead of the automobile. After a few more sallies of wit, only part in earnest, mother Pelton spoke half reprovingly, "There now, children, don't you think you have carried this far enough?"

Though Kate, as we first knew her, now Mrs. Pelton a matron of mature age, spoke of them this way in pleasantry, in her heart she felt and thought of them as her children, and not as a mature man and woman. Many a mother carries that feeling to the end of her life; God bless their memories!

Adam and Sarah had much in common, though each held opinions which they would stoutly defend when occasion seemed to require it. They often roamed the fields together, and penetrated the forests in search of flowers, ferns or shrubs, or to study bird and small animal life. Sarah had a creditable collection, particularly of flowers and ferns, while Adam mounted his birds and small animals with his own hands; both collections, jointly cared for and equally prized by each, were in one room of the residence.

Sarah was a pronounced "woman's rights" advocate, and a staunch admirer of Susan B. Anthony, while Adam did not hesitate to call her a crank, and thought a woman's place in the household instead of the political arena. On various subjects they usually agreed to disagree; but when it came to the temperance question or religious opinions, they were of one mind.

Immediately after breakfast, Adam saddled his horse and rode off without telling anyone where he was going. Notwithstanding his jocular attitude toward Sarah's wagon-box idea, he had been impressed with it and went direct to the automobile shop in the city determined to investigate. "Yes, it's perfectly feasible," they all said when he explained what was wanted. One mechanic spoke up, "I saw that old man's outfit with his stovepipe running through the wagon cover just as if he was in a house."

Without consulting anyone at home, he ordered the chassis and other fixtures for two automobiles without the tops, in due time justifying his precipitate action by the explanation that neither Aunt Sarah nor his father, or both together, should bear all of the expense of the trip, as each had expressed a willingness to do. Adam said nothing that evening as to where he had been or what he had done, but at breakfast the next morning began teasing Sarah about her wagon-box on the running gear of an automobile, to prepare the way for the laugh that was on him; and then came out with the whole story to the great merriment of all. He could enjoy a joke on himself as well as on another, and joined heartily in the laugh that followed.

Preparations for the great journey progressed during the winter, three months before they could cross the first mountain barrier without encountering snow. Time seemed to pass slowly, for all were eager to start. Maps were sought, guide-books searched and all obtainable literature on or about the Oregon Trail read, re-read and studied. With the lapse of years the old track had become famous and revered by millions as a battlefield, which indeed it was; a traveler who had passed over it wrote a description and brief history of it as follows:

Worn deep and wide by the migration of three hundred thousand people, lined by the graves of twenty thousand dead, witness of romance and tragedy, the Oregon Trail is unique in history, and will always be sacred to the memories of the pioneers. Reaching the summit of the Rockies upon an evenly distributed grade of eight feet to the mile, following the watercourse of the River Platte and tributaries to within two miles of the summit of the South Pass, through the Rocky Mountain barrier, descending to the tide-waters of the Pacific through the valleys of the Snake and Columbia, the route of the Oregon Trail points the way for a great National Highway from the Missouri River to Puget Sound—a roadway of greatest commercial importance, a highway of military preparedness, a route for a lasting memorial to the pioneers, thus combining utility and sentiment.

[1] A fragment of history from the life of Marcus Whitman.

CHAPTER VIII

THE START FOR THE ROCKIES; RE-DISCOVERY OF THE OLD TRAIL; RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNT RIVER; ALL SIGNS OF BEN'S GRAVE OBLITERATED; A GRANITE MONUMENT ERECTED NEAR THE LONE PINE AND WAGON TIRE AT THE GRAVE OF CATHERINE MULHALL; CLOSING SCENES.

At last the eventful day for the start arrived amid auspicious circumstances. The maple leaves were full size, pastures green and the grains were coming up with promises of a bounteous yield. Silver tips of new growth ornamented the evergreen trees. Many of the hardier varieties of rose were in bloom, some for more than a month; the crocus peeped out in March, followed by numerous other early flowers. Birds had nested, and the mates were busily occupied in securing food for the ones that kept the little eggs warm, and for themselves.

The barn on the Pelton homestead reflected the sunlight from its new coat of paint, but the residence needed no further attention, as a heavy film of sand had been blown in with each previous application. The garden fence was given a fresh cover of whitewash, and everything was looking in the best of condition. Catherine, now a widow with a large family, arrived to care for the residence and garden during the absence of the household; and the tenant for the year had moved into the old dwelling, the first one built, near-by.

At the hour set for the start, all the travelers were in their places when Adam said that Sarah, whose arms were resting on the steering wheel of the automobile she was to drive, should take the lead. Sarah replied, "No"—that Adam ought to have the honor. The neighbors who had gathered into a group along the roadside to see them off wondered what they could be waiting for.

Finally mother Pelton asked, "Will you leave it to me?" Both almost in one breath exclaimed "Yes." "Go ahead with father, Sarah," was Kate's quick answer; and the start was made amidst a flutter of handkerchiefs in the assemblage of neighbors, the tooting of horns on both automobiles and waving of small American flags.

Adam had displayed real genius in providing a convenient outfit. The automobile with large wagon-size top and high canvas cover was turned into a living room, with electric lights and a small heater for the electric iron or to boil water for tea even while they traveled. Sarah never tired praising Adam for the very convenient arrangement, and he in turn gave full credit to her for suggesting the wagon-box that made it possible.

Pelton soon began to recognize the route traveled on his first trip to Puget Sound, and also when he visited Linda Hardy and returned home with little Sarah and Bess. Where Sarah had pitched headlong off the pony's back into the mud, there was now a thriving village with brick buildings, a fine Court House, two modest but neat appearing churches and a commodious hotel. They passed through five such villages on long stretches of road paved like the main highways of the eastern States.

On the bank of a large river he found an enterprising city with thousands of busy inhabitants, where at the time of his earlier visits there was only a scattered village with temporary shanties, and stumps obstructing the streets. Now there were brick blocks several stories high in the central business district, and fine residences in the outlying sections.

No member of the party had ever seen the rift through which this stream flows between the mountains, and all were astonished at the wonderful scenery on both sides of it. There were numerous waterfalls, one with a perpendicular drop of nearly a thousand feet, and patches of snow on a background of green, making a vista of surpassing beauty.

A few days later they came upon the track followed by the Mulhall outfit half a century before; and Kate quickly recognized the locality as they approached a second range of mountains. Where only roving bands of Indians were seen as they journeyed slowly toward the west on the first trip, vast fields of grain were now growing; and instead of a few tepees, the dwellings of civilized people dotted the landscape. A flourishing village with substantial and well-kept surroundings evidenced the thrift and comfortable environment of the inhabitants.

The party had just passed through what seemed a desert land, bordering on and paralleling the great river. Shifting sands had formed small dunes, which disappeared and formed elsewhere as the wind changed in direction or velocity. Not a living thing was in sight, except here and there a clump of stunted sage-brush or greasewood.

Following the stream through this cleft in the mountain range, they were soon overtaken by a sand-storm driven by the force of the prevailing winds, occasionally encountered by travelers now as by the pioneers—at first dimming the rays of the sun, and soon entirely obscuring it. The haze of sand and fine dust hung low on the horizon like a fog, and darkened one's view of objects even in the near vicinity. Kate called ahead to Sarah to turn out of the road, which she quickly did and was followed by Adam.

The two younger members of the party had never before gone through such an experience, but mother Pelton said it reminded her of scenes along the Oregon Trail in 185-. She had forgotten that they were on the branch of the Trail which follows the river, instead of the one crossing the mountain range, as the Mulhalls had done on the first trip. Before Adam and Sarah could place their automobiles with the rear ends to windward and close the front covers, the sand and dust penetrated their ears and eyes, covered their faces, filled their hair and as Sarah remarked afterwards, "left us in a woeful condition."

The electric light was turned on, but the dust that had worked into the space inside the cover prevented cleaning up until the storm abated; this it did late in the afternoon, when the journey was resumed with the people in the car laughing at the appearance of each other, and the surprise of a lifetime before all of them. About sunset a modest farmhouse was sighted; as they approached nearer an orchard of thrifty fruit trees was observed, and soon a large expanse of growing crops spread out before them in a panorama of living green.

"Neighbor, you have a fine home here so close to the desert we have just crossed," Pelton said addressing the middle-aged man who, as soon as he saw the two automobiles approaching from the west, came out through the gate of the front yard to offer a friendly greeting.

"You are still in the 'desert,' if that is what you call the section you have just passed through," the stranger responded. "What you see here is the same, or was when we first came four years ago. Won't you come in?" The ladies at first objected, saying they were not presentable. "Oh, that's nothing," continued the homesteader, "it's clean dirt; we're used to it here. Jane (referring to his wife) I know will be delighted to have you come in and have supper with us."

By this time the mistress of the house appeared and seconded her husband's invitation. Observing the sincerity of the good dame, mother Pelton was the first to assent, quickly followed by the others; and in they went—"Dirty faces and all," as Aunt Sarah said later.

While preparations were being made for the appetizing meal that followed Pelton expressed surprise that it was possible to have such a property in the midst of a desert. "I'll tell you all about that later," said the homesteader, as he repeated his wife's invitation, "Come to supper." After a bounteous meal of fresh vegetables, fruits and other farm products, accompanied with a bumper of hard cider, the travelers were anxious to hear the story of how their host came to make his residence in that locality.

"You see," he began, "I saw a small patch of reclaimed land with such fine crops that I at once felt encouraged to try it on a larger scale. So we bought this tract of 640 acres—a mile square—for a dollar and a quarter an acre, and in addition took up a desert claim, making in all nearly a thousand acres of land—or sand, as you probably think of it. Fortunately the river comes in from the south with a strong current; my son and I went up far enough to tap the water, and dug a ditch from it on our land—now you see the result."

"Do you mean to say that when you came here, the land covered by the orchard, and where your crops are growing was like the desert we've just crossed?" mother Pelton asked. "Just that," the host replied.

"Well, it seems to me like a miracle," Pelton responded; "and so it does to the others." There were many other surprises in store for the pilgrims as they progressed eastward.

"Yes, I remember this place," mother Pelton said as they descended the second mountain range. "Father said it seemed like a big hole in the landscape as we looked down upon it from the other side; but such a beautiful valley—the Grand Ronde—you never saw." A few days later, as their automobile ran along a narrow cut in a hillside parallel to a small river, she commented, "This was the worst road[1] on all the old Trail—right down in the stream and half the time over slippery boulders, some of them as big as a wagon wheel; two of the oxen were down at one time."

"Oh, I remember this," Aunt Sarah[2] said as they came to a crossing; "here's where we ferried over on top of two wagon-boxes. I thought every minute we were going to sink, and to this day cannot see why we didn't."

"Here's where we left one of the wagons, and Ben went ahead to get something to eat," mother Pelton said with a sigh, as they were approaching the locality where Hardy was killed by the Indians. Would they be able to identify the spot where the massacre occurred; and if they did, could they find his grave? For some time before that, the tragedy of nearly a half century before had been crowded out of their minds by the diverting incidents of the trip; but now it was their uppermost thought, and the older members of the party lapsed into silence.

Linda Hardy had so minutely described the river crossing and the natural objects in the vicinity of it, that all were sanguine of being able to find and mark the spot. They were convinced that the crossing had been located, for the approaches on either side fitted the description; the unmistakable mark of the Oregon Trail was there—worn deep on both sides of the river, as Linda had said. But all the ground from river to bluff was now covered by a field of waving grain, without any trace of the sorrowful interment which took place there at the height of the overland emigration to Oregon.

Before leaving home, Sarah read a statement to her mother that the graves of only a few among the twenty thousand who had died along the Trail could be identified, and wondered if they would be able to find her grandmother's burial place if they made the trip. Mrs. Pelton thought they could; but looking over the ground beneath which she felt sure that the remains of Ben Hardy, who had saved her life, had been placed after the massacre, she continued in silence as Adam started across the river to resume the journey along the old Trail.

They were now traveling up a fertile valley divided into farms, extensive green alfalfa and grain fields and highly productive orchards, with evidences of a happy and thriving people living in peace and security. Several prosperous villages and the capital of a State were passed where only sage-brush, grasshoppers and jack-rabbits (some of the more destitute emigrants subsisting on the rabbits) were seen on the first trip of the older people in the party.

Recrossing to the south side of the Snake River, the travelers were again in a region of shifting sands and desolation—part of what was once commonly referred to as the "Great American Desert," and considered practically worthless by some of the so-called "statesmen" of two generations before. Meanwhile vast irrigation projects had been undertaken, and in part completed, with a sure prospect of developing many rich agricultural areas extending as far as the eye can see. All of these scenes were new but immensely interesting to father Pelton.

Three falls, rivaling Niagara in beauty and grandeur, were passed in quick succession as they continued along that great river; and mother Pelton recognized the place where she had taken the thirsty oxen down into the canyon and came so near failing to get them back, as related in an earlier chapter. Sarah's arms became stronger as she drove the automobile, and she seemed to be thriving on the dust of the plains, the smell of the sage-brush, or both. All doubts of her ability to extend the trip across the Continent if need be, were dispelled; and the whole party was in good health and spirits.

Ascending to a higher altitude and cooler atmosphere, they left behind the beet fields and sugar factories, the extensive farms, alfalfa stacks and well-fed cattle which have taken the place of the now almost extinct buffalo. Farther up the Rocky Mountain slope, they entered a region where crops cannot be profitably grown; farms and buildings gradually disappeared, and the continuous Trail appeared in all its primitiveness. Now and then an antelope would cross the track and turn to scan the stranger as with a jealous eye, arousing in mother Pelton a wish for her rifle, forgetting she might not be able to draw a bead as in her younger days.

So moderate was the upgrade that the drivers of the two cars scarcely realized that they were ascending the slope of the Rocky Mountains; and except for the granite monument in the South Pass, they would probably not have recognized the actual crossing of the Great Divide. Another day's run would bring them to the spot they had come so far to revisit. Mother Pelton felt confident that they could find it; and Aunt Sarah, though a little girl when the grave was made a half century before, was sure of being able to do so.

Yet the road did not look at all familiar, or seem natural. Afternoon came, and there was no sign by which it could be recognized—nor anything at sunset. It was then necessary to camp, as darkness would soon make it impossible to follow the Trail; and a sleepless night for all followed.

Mother Pelton thought they might have passed the four tracks worn in the ledge of rocks that was to be the principal guide in reaching it. Another sign, the North Star, was obscured; and the third help in the search, the rift in the mountains so well remembered and described by Aunt Sarah, was not visible. In the morning it was considered best to drive back over part of the Trail they had traversed the afternoon before.

"Hold on," suddenly exclaimed Aunt Sarah after a few miles of back tracking; "I know we're wrong for I remember that rock." She pointed to a conical pile—almost a mountain—and continued, "See, it looks almost like a man's head; we passed that the next day after we buried mother." Then the party turned right-about, and again started eastward along the Trail; after traveling a few miles, Sarah drew off to the side of the road and waited for Adam to come up.

He arrived a moment later, wondering why she had stopped, and called out, "What's the matter?" "Nothing is the matter," Sarah answered; "but, mother, do you see that old Trail going up the hill? Maybe that's the one you traveled when you were here before!"

Photograph from J. L. McIntosh, Split Rock, Wyoming

TRACKS ON THE OREGON TRAIL (SEE PAGES 217 AND 220)
MADE NEARLY A CENTURY AGO

Over these four parallel tracks (only two of which show in the photograph), worn nearly hub deep in places, all the emigrant travel to Oregon, Great Salt Lake and California passed during the period covered by this story; and they remain to this day a sight of great historical interest across a sandstone ledge near Split Rock P. O., in the Sweetwater Valley, Wyoming. The early trappers, traders, explorers and missionaries—Benjamin L. E. Bonneville, Nathaniel J. Wyeth, Jason Lee, Marcus Whitman, John C. Fremont and many others—helped to deepen these enduring markers in stone, now chiefly interesting as evidences of the great westward movement over the Oregon Trail. Inset: a miniature view of the split in the mountain rock from which the name of the locality is derived; see also Douglas Craig's promise to little Sarah, pages 72-73.

The track to which she thus called attention was dim, showed no signs of recent travel, and had been overlooked as they passed it the previous day. At several places there were parallel trails, one along the river with frequent crossings of the stream, the other across table-lands high above it, and either over or around projecting edges of the adjacent hills. Neither Aunt Sarah nor mother Pelton was sure which one they had gone over before, but all agreed that they should drive out on the abandoned roadway.

This proved not only a tedious but a really dangerous task, as the elements had destroyed parts of it and cut deep gullies in and across what was left. Nevertheless Adam believed they were on the right track; mother Pelton thought the same, and said that the trail looked more natural to her than the one they had traveled the day before.

Father Pelton took off his coat and joined Adam in some repairs made necessary by the rough going, and Sarah appeared on the scene ready to help. Pelton was surprised at how well he was able to do the unaccustomed work, and greatly relished the dinner mother Pelton and Aunt Sarah prepared. Hearing the tinkling of a bell over the near-by ridge during the early afternoon, he strolled off toward the sound; and soon came upon the bell-wether of a flock of sheep, then the flock and herder—each equally surprised at the presence of the other.

"Where'd ye come from?" the man asked somewhat abruptly, and yet in a friendly tone; and almost at the same instant Pelton remarked, "I didn't expect to find anyone here." After mutual explanations and cordial greetings—for each was glad to see the other—Pelton mentioned that he was one of an automobile party trying to reach the four track ruts in the ledge of rock on the old Oregon Trail.

"I know where it is," the herder responded, "down the river opposite the lone pine tree." The reader may well imagine the relief and joy of father Pelton upon hearing the three magic words "lone pine tree," as he believed they contained definite information of the lost grave, which soon afterward proved true.

"You can see the tree for miles around, as it stands out by itself; everybody wonders how it came to be there," continued the stranger.

"Would you come to our camp a short way over the ridge?" Pelton asked.

"Sure," the man replied and then spoke in a low tone to his dog, which immediately headed off some of the flock just starting to cross the ridge.

"Wonderful, isn't it?" asked Pelton, half to himself. To this the herder made no reply but again spoke to the dog, which he left on watch while the two men started off toward the camp. On their arrival, work ceased and all assembled to listen eagerly to what the stranger had to say.

"Yes, this runs to the four tracks on the Oregon Trail," were his first words; "you can reach them another way that's open to travel, but can't get through here in a month's work. Go back about five miles till you come to the first river crossing," the herder continued, "turn short around on the river trail about eight miles till you cross the river twice. Then turn to the right on the old Trail about half a mile, I should judge, and you will come to the tracks."[3]