Nevertheless
I read his narrative with an interest which on analysis turns out to be a
by-product of personal experience: among my youthful indiscretions was a
journey over much of the same ground, which I took in much the same
way--as did many thousands before and after.
It was a far cry from 1841 to 1866, yet the country between the Missouri
River and the Sierra Nevada had not greatly improved: civilization had
halted at the river, awaiting transportation. A railroad had set out from
Omaha westward, and another at Sacramento was solemnly considering the
impossible suggestion of going eastward to meet it. There were lunatics in
those days, as there are in these. I left the one road a few miles out of
the Nebraskan village and met the other at Dutch Flat, in California.
Waste no compassion on the loneliness of my journey: a thriving colony of
Mormons had planted itself in the valley of Salt Lake and there were
"forts" at a few points along the way, where ambitious young army officers
passed the best years of their lives guarding live stock and teaching the
mysteries of Hardee's tactics to that alien patriot, the American regular.
There was a dusty wagon road, bordered with bones--not always those of
animals--with an occasional mound, sometimes dignified with a warped and
rotting head-board bearing an illegible inscription. (One inscription not
entirely illegible is said to have concluded with this touching tribute to
the worth of the departed: "He was a good egg.
Pages:
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257