alarmed; and, as I learned, they sent to Colonel Kearny, requesting an escort of dragoons as far as the Platte.  This was refused; and as the sequel proved, there was no occasion for it.  The St. Joseph’s emigrants were as good Christians and as zealous Mormon-haters as the rest; and the very few families of the “Saints” who passed out this season by the route of the Platte remained behind until the great tide of emigration had gone by; standing in quite as much awe of the “gentiles” as the latter did of them.

We were now, as I before mentioned, upon this St. Joseph’s trail.  It was evident, by the traces, that large parties were a few days in advance of us; and as we too supposed them to be Mormons, we had some apprehension of interruption.

The journey was somewhat monotonous.  One day we rode on for hours, without seeing a tree or a bush; before, behind, and on either side, stretched the vast expanse, rolling in a succession of graceful swells, covered with the unbroken carpet of fresh green grass.  Here and there a crow, or a raven, or a turkey-buzzard, relieved the uniformity.

“What shall we do to-night for wood and water?” we began to ask of each other; for the sun was within an hour of setting.  At length a dark green speck appeared, far off on the right; it was the top of a tree, peering over a swell of the prairie; and leaving the trail, we made all haste toward it.  It proved to be the vanguard of a cluster of bushes and low trees, that surrounded some pools of water in an extensive hollow; so we encamped on the rising ground near it.

Shaw and I were sitting in the tent, when Delorier thrust his brown face and old felt hat into the opening, and dilating his eyes to their utmost extent, announced supper.  There were the tin cups and the iron spoons, arranged in military order on the grass, and the coffee-pot predominant in the midst.  The meal was soon dispatched; but Henry Chatillon still sat cross-legged, dallying with the remnant of his coffee, the beverage in universal use upon the prairie, and an especial favorite with him.  He preferred it in its virgin flavor, unimpaired by sugar or cream; and on the present occasion it met his entire approval, being exceedingly strong, or, as he expressed it, “right black.”

It was a rich and gorgeous sunset—­an American sunset; and the ruddy glow of the sky was reflected from some extensive pools of water among the shadowy copses in the meadow below.

“I must have a bath to-night,” said Shaw.  “How is it, Delorier?  Any chance for a swim down here?”

“Ah!  I cannot tell; just as you please, monsieur,” replied Delorier, shrugging his shoulders, perplexed by his ignorance of English, and extremely anxious to conform in all respects to the opinion and wishes of his bourgeois.

“Look at his moccasion,” said I.  “It has evidently been lately immersed in a profound abyss of black mud.”

“Come,” said Shaw; “at any rate we can see for ourselves.”