I know, for my father had said it was sixty miles to Fillmore, the next Mormon settlement, and we made three camps on the way.

This meant four days of travel.

From Nephi to the last camp of which I have any memory we must have taken two weeks or a little less.
At Fillmore the inhabitants were hostile, as all had been since Salt Lake.

They laughed at us when we tried to buy food, and were not above taunting us with being Missourians.
When we entered the place, hitched before the largest house of the dozen houses that composed the settlement were two saddle-horses, dusty, streaked with sweat, and drooping.

The old man I have mentioned, the one with long, sunburnt hair and buckskin shirt and who seemed a sort of aide or lieutenant to father, rode close to our wagon and indicated the jaded saddle-animals with a cock of his head.
"Not sparin' horseflesh, Captain," he muttered in a low voice.