Fred and I sat, back to back, perched
on a flour bag till daylight, with no covering but our
shooting jackets, our feet in a pool, and bodies streaming
like cascades.
Repeated lightning seemed to strike the
ground within a few yards of us. The animals, wild with
terror, stampeded in all directions. In the morning, lo and
behold! Samson on his back in the water, insensibly drunk.
At first I thought he was dead; but he was only dead drunk.
We can't move till he can, unless we bequeath him to the
wolves, which are plentiful. This is the third time he has
served us the same trick. I took the liberty to ram my heel
through the whisky keg (we have kept a small one for
emergencies) and put it empty under his head for a pillow.'
There were plenty of days and nights to match these, but
there were worse in store for us.
One evening, travelling along the North Platte river, before
reaching Laramie, we overtook a Mormon family on their way to
Salt Lake city. They had a light covered wagon with hardly
anything in it but a small supply of flour and bacon. It was
drawn by four oxen and two cows. Four milch cows were
driven. The man's name was Blazzard - a Yorkshireman from
the Wolds, whose speech was that of Learoyd. He had only his
wife and a very pretty daughter of sixteen or seventeen with
him.
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