ng that
I was on ahead.

It was an awful hot afternoon, and I was getting warmed up myself. I
reloaded my rifle, looked at the receding train, and made up my mind to
have that wheel if it took the balance of the day to get it into camp. I
started by rolling it by hand, then by dragging it behind me, then I ran
my rifle through the hub and got it up on my shoulder, when I moved off
at a good pace. The sun shining hot, soon began to melt the tar in the
hub, which began running down my back, both on the inside and outside of
my clothes, as well as down along my rifle. I finally got back to the
road, very tired, stopping to rest, hoping a wagon would come along to
help me out, but not one came in sight that afternoon. In short, I
rolled, dragged and carried that wheel; my neck, shoulders and back
daubed over with tar, until the train turned out to camp, when, I being
missed, was discovered away back in the road with my wheel. When relief
came to me, I was nearly tired out with my exertions, and want of water
to drink.

Some of the men set to work taking the wheel apart and fitting the
spokes and getting the wheel ready to set the tire. Others had collected
a couple of gunny-sacks full of the only fuel of the Platte Valley,
viz., "buffalo-chips," and they soon had the job completed. The boys
nearly wore themselves out, laughing and jeering at me, saying they were
sorry they had no feathers to go with the tar, and calling me a variety
of choice pet names.

The wheel, when finished and adjusted, proved to be the best part of the
wagon, and, better than all else, had provided a season of mirth to the
whole company, which, considering the all too serious environments of
our march, was really a much needed tonic and diversion.

We learned so many wonderful lessons in those days, lessons that have
never been made into books. We learned from nature; we learned from
animal nature; we learned from human nature; and where are they who
studied from the same page as did I? So often and so completely have the
slides been changed, that among all the faces now shown by life's
stereopticon, mine alone remains of the original twenty-five, of the
trail of '52. But somewhere the Master has a counterpart of each.

CHAPTER IV.

OUR PRAIRIES ARE A BOOK, WHOSE PAGES HOLD MANY STORIES.

We have just been passing through an extremely interesting portion of
Nebraska, a portion which today is known as Western Nebraska, where
those won