amusing as "Sam Slick." They not only wanted to "swop" my pony, but to
"trade" my watch. They trade their souls, I know. They displayed
their wares for an hour with much dexterous flattery and
persuasiveness, but Mrs. Link was untemptable, and I was only tempted
into buying a handkerchief to keep the sun off. There was another
dispute about my route. It was the most critical day of my journey.
If a snowstorm came on, I might be detained in the mountains for many
weeks; but if I got through the snow and reached the Denver wagon road,
no detention would signify much. The pedlars insisted that I could not
get through, for the road was not broken. Mrs. L. thought I could, and
advised me to try, so I saddled Birdie and rode away.

More than half of the day was far from enjoyable. The morning was
magnificent, but the light too dazzling, the sun too fierce. As soon
as I got out I felt as if I should drop off the horse. My large
handkerchief kept the sun from my neck, but the fierce heat caused soul
and sense, brain and eye, to reel. I never saw or felt the like of it.
I was at a height of 12,000 feet, where, of course, the air was highly
rarefied, and the snow was so pure and dazzling that I was obliged to
keep my eyes shut as much as possible to avoid snow blindness. The sky
was a different and terribly fierce color; and when I caught a glimpse
of the sun, he was white and unwinking like a lime-ball light, yet
threw off wicked scintillations. I suffered so from nausea,
exhaustion, and pains from head to foot, that I felt as if I must lie
down in the snow. It may have been partly the early stage of soroche,
or mountain sickness. We plodded on for four hours, snow all round,
and nothing else to be seen but an ocean of glistening peaks against
that sky of infuriated blue. How I found my way I shall never know,
for the only marks on the snow were occasional footprints of a man, and
I had no means of knowing whether they led in the direction I ought to
take. Earlier, before the snow became so deep, I passed the last great
haunt of the magnificent mountain bison, but, unfortunately, saw
nothing but horns and bones. Two months ago Mr. Link succeeded in
separating a calf from the herd, and has partially domesticated it. It
is a very ugly thing at seven months old, with a thick beard, and a
short, thick, dark mane on its heavy shoulders. It makes a loud grunt
like a pig. It can outrun their fastest horse, and it