a bridge, but
could not finish it on account of the timber not arriving. The Company
camp was moved to-day to within sight of the bridge.

We enjoy ourselves vastly while on these working parties,
notwithstanding hardships and privations. No roll calls, no guard
mounting, no policing--nothing but peace and quiet from the time we
quit work until we retire to sleep. We spend the evenings in joking,
singing, and smoking.

July 14 (Wednesday). We arose at 4, and packed our rifles and
accoutrements in the wagons, two men only in each of the four parties
keeping their guns, in case we should be able to start up some game. We
gained about eight miles on our journey to-day. Many deep gullies were
encountered, requiring some time to be put into condition for
travelling. A camp ground was selected among the Sand Peaks, outside of
Bridgers Pass, and on Muddy Creek. It was within an hour of sunset, but
as the Company train is to proceed some miles farther to-morrow, we
were obliged to go a mile ahead, where an immense gully, about eighty
feet wide, with sides about fifteen feet high, nearly perpendicular,
was to be filled and graded. We all set to with a will, and finished
this great bugbear of an undertaking within an hour. Sergeant Wilson
received four days' more rations from the Company. The guides joined us
this evening, as the country we are to pass over to-morrow is somewhat
difficult.

_July 15_ (Thursday). This morning, as a long march was to be made on
account of the scarcity of water, we were turned out at 1 a.m. Several
large fires were built and we sat about them to eat our breakfast,
after which, by their light, we struck tents and loaded the wagons.
About 2 o'clock we assembled about the fire and made the surrounding
mountains ring with the strains of the "Star Spangled Banner." There,
in the midst of the wilderness, where the human form is but rarely
seen, where the stillness of the night is almost painfully oppressive,
where no sound is heard to break the spell of silence save the solitary
howl of some disconsolate wolf, the shrill voice of the brooding owl,
or the mournful, plaintive cry of the cuckoo--there did our voices
swell out in harmony as we published to the hills our patriotic
principles. And when, the chorus returned for the last time, and every
voice was exerted to its utmost to do justice to the language, it
seemed as though those very hills had caught the inspiration. As our
voices ceased, and, fo