There were no farms, no traders, no grain to be had.

The race had become a race of endurance, and the strongest stomachs were destined to be the winners.
Stewart made a bad job of the crossing.

The river was high, and his mules quickly mired down in the quicksand.

The more they pawed the deeper they went.
Simpson picked a place for crossing below the ford Stewart had chosen.
He put enough bulls on a wagon to insure its easy progress, and the bulls wallowed through the sand on their round bellies, using their legs as paddles.
Steward pulled ahead again after he had crossed the river, but soon his mules grew too feeble to make anything like their normal speed.

We passed them for good and all a few days farther on, and were far ahead when we reached the North Platte.
Thus ended a race that I shall never forget.