I have always been glad that we were not killed that night.
I do not know any particular reason, but I have always been glad.
In the morning, the tenth day out, we crossed Green River, a fine, large, limpid stream--stuck in it with the water just up to the top of our mail-bed, and waited till extra teams were put on to haul us up the steep bank.

But it was nice cool water, and besides it could not find any fresh place on us to wet.
At the Green River station we had breakfast--hot biscuits, fresh antelope steaks, and coffee--the only decent meal we tasted between the United States and Great Salt Lake City, and the only one we were ever really thankful for.
Think of the monotonous execrableness of the thirty that went before it, to leave this one simple breakfast looming up in my memory like a shot-tower after all these years have gone by! At five P.M.

we reached Fort Bridger, one hundred and seventeen miles from the South Pass, and one thousand and twenty-five miles from St.
Joseph.

Fifty-two miles further on, near the head of Echo Canyon, we met sixty United States soldiers from Camp Floyd.

The day before, they had fired upon three hundred or four hundred Indians, whom they supposed gathered together for no good purpose.