Every hour of travel to the East was to him dangerous, disheartening.

On the second day he was ready to leap from the caboose and wave it good-by; but he did not--he merely sat on the back platform and watched the track.

He felt as if he were in one of those aerial buckets which descend like eagles from the mines in the Marshall Basin; the engine appeared to proceed eastward of its own weight, impossible to check or turn back.
The uncertainty of finding Mary in the millions of the city weakened his resolution, but as he was aboard, and as the train slid while he pondered, descending, remorselessly, he determined to "stay with it" as he would with a bucking broncho.
Kansas City with its big depot sheds filled with clangor and swarming with emigrants gave him a foretaste of Chicago.

Two of his companions proceeded to get drunk and became so offensive that he was forced to cuff them into quiet.

This depressed him also--he had no other defense but his hands.