ood
woman's breast. After a few miles' travel the reluctant final parting
came. We could not then know that this loved parent would lay down her
life a few years later in a heroic attempt to follow the wanderers to
Oregon. She rests in an unknown and unmarked grave in the Platte valley.

What shall I say of that October drive from the home near Indianapolis
to Eddyville, Iowa, in the delightful atmosphere of Indian summer? It
was an atmosphere of hope and content. We had the wide world before us;
we had good health; and above all we had each other.

At this time but one railroad entered Indianapolis--it would be called a
tramway now--from Madison on the Ohio River. When we cut loose from that
embryo city we left railroads behind us, except where rails were laid
crosswise in the wagon track to keep the wagon out of the mud. No matter
if the road was rough--we could go a little slower, and shouldn't we
have a better appetite for supper because of the jolting, and sleep the
sounder? Everything in the world looked bright.

The great Mississippi was crossed at Burlington. After a few days of
further driving, we arrived at Eddyville, in Iowa. Though we did not
realize it at the time, this was destined to be only a place to winter,
a way station on our route to Oregon.

My first introduction to an Iowa winter was in a surveyor's camp on the
western borders of the state. This was a little north of Kanesville, now
Council Bluffs. I began as cook for the camp, but very soon changed this
position for that of flagman.

If there are any settlers now left of the Iowa of that day, they will
remember that the winter was bitter cold. On the way back from the
surveying party to Eddyville, just before Christmas, I encountered one
of the bitterest of those bitter days.

A companion named Vance rested with me overnight in a cabin. We had
scant food for ourselves or for the mare we led. It was thirty-five
miles to the next cabin; we must reach that place or lie out in the
snow. So a very early start was made before daybreak, while the wind
lay. The good woman of the cabin baked us some biscuits for a noon
lunch, but they were frozen solid in our pockets before we had been out
two hours. The wind rose with the sun, and with the sun two bright sun
dogs--a beautiful sight to behold, but arising from conditions
intolerable to bear. Vance came near freezing to death, and would have
done so had I not succeeded in arousing him to anger and ge