They said it was a dangerous stream to cross, now, because its quicksands were liable to swallow up horses, coach and passengers if an attempt was made to ford it.

But the mails had to go, and we made the attempt.

Once or twice in midstream the wheels sunk into the yielding sands so threateningly that we half believed we had dreaded and avoided the sea all our lives to be shipwrecked in a "mud-wagon" in the middle of a desert at last.

But we dragged through and sped away toward the setting sun.
Next morning, just before dawn, when about five hundred and fifty miles from St.Joseph, our mud-wagon broke down.

We were to be delayed five or six hours, and therefore we took horses, by invitation, and joined a party who were just starting on a buffalo hunt.