I remember asking my father a great many questions, and he explained to me all about the freighting business across the great plains, and told me about the different government posts.
Pointing over to the army of wagons camped below us, he showed me which were the Mormons' and which were the Californians', and said that we must steer clear of the former as the cholera was raging among them.

Five hundred had died that spring--1853--and the grave-yard was daily increasing its dimensions.

The unfortunate people had been overtaken by the dreadful disease, and had been compelled to halt on their journey until it abated.
While we were looking at the Mormons they were holding a funeral service over the remains of some of their number who had died.

Their old cemetery is yet indicated by various land-marks, which, however, with the few remaining head-boards, are fast disappearing.
We passed on through this "Valley of Death," as it might then have been very appropriately called, and after riding for some time, my father pointed out a large hill and showed me his camp, which afterwards became our home.
There was another trading-post near by, which was conducted by Mr.
M.P.Rively, who had a store built, partly frame, and partly of logs.
We stopped at this establishment for a while, and found perhaps a hundred men, women and children gathered there, engaged in trading and gossipping.

The men had huge pistols and knives in their belts; their pantaloons were tucked in their boots; and they wore large broad-rimmed hats.
To me they appeared like a lot of cut-throat pirates who had come ashore for a lark.