scourge came from the south, as we met the trains that crossed the Platte and congested the trail, one might almost say, both day and night. And small wonder when such scenes occurred as is related. Mrs. M. E. Jones now of North Yakima, relates that forty people of their train died in one day and two nights before reaching the crossing of the Platte. Martin Cook, of Newberg, Oregon, is my authority for the following: A family of seven persons, the father known as "Dad Friels," from Hartford, Warren county, Iowa, all died of cholera and were buried in one grave. He could not tell me the locality nor the exact date, but it would be useless to search for the graves, as all such have long ago been leveled by the passing of the hoofs of the buffalo or domestic stock, or met the fate of hundreds of shallow graves," desecrated by the hungry wolves. While camped with a sick brother four days a short distance above Grand island, by actual count of one day and estimate for three, sixteen hundred wagons passed by, and a neighboring burial place grew from five to fifty-two fresh graves. With unusual opportunities for gathering information upon this subject, through personal acquaintance with pioneers throughout the Pacific northwest, all of whom came to that region prior to 1860, it is his judgment that from twenty-five to thirty thousand men, women and children were buried in nameless graves between the Missouri river and the Columbia river, as a part of the price paid for the early settlement of Oregon.
All sorts of incidents of human life break the monotony of the march. Suddenly a wagon is seen to pull out of the train and off to the wayside. The only doctor in the train (Marcus Whitman) goes off with it. Many are the inquiries of the unusual event; and grave fears expressed of the danger of leaving a lone wagon behind in an Indian country. The lumbering caravan moves slowly on, passes behind the bluffs and out of sight, and the anxiety and fears for the lone wagon left behind increase. The train halts for the night, forms its defensive circle, fires are lighted for the evening meal and the shadows of the night are creeping down upon the camp—when, behold, the lone wagon rolls into camp, the doctor smiling and happy—it was a newborn boy—mother and child all right and ready for the continued journey."
Applegate, in the article mentioned, speaking of Dr. Whitman, who had been over the trail once before, says his constant advice was "travel, travel, travel; nothing else will take you to the end of your journey; nothing is wise that does not help you along; nothing is good for you that causes a moment's delay." And Applegate adds his testimonial as follows: "It is no disparagement to others to say that to no other individual are the emigrants of 1843 so much indebted for the successful conclusion of their journey as to Dr. Whitman."
The watch for the night is set; the flute and violin have ceased their soothing notes, the enamored swain has whispered his last good night, or stolen the last kiss from his blushing sweetheart, and all is hushed in the slumber of the camp of one thousand persons in the heart of the great mountains a thousand miles from any white man's habitation, with savage Indians in all directions. What a picture of American ideas, push, enterprise, courage and empire building. Risking everything, braving every danger, and conquering every difficulty and obstruction. We are a vain, conceited, bumptious people, boasting of our good deeds and utterly ignoring our bad ones. But where is the people
