Taos, and Santa Fé. A Siberian winter set in. Stormed in on the mountains, imprisoned in dark defiles for days, feeding their horses on cottonwood bark, yet on, still on. The multitudinous cry of coyotes followed on their track. Blizzards obscured the winter trail, the guide lost his way in the darkened air; their steps must be retraced, but whither? Even the morning trail was lost in the blinding drift. There in the wild mountain, with the wintry tempest howling loud and louder, all seemed lost. Dr. Whitman threw himself upon his knees and committed his wife, his mission, and his cause to God. The half-frozen mule began to prick his ears, and turning about led them back to the morning fire. After days of weary waiting the wind lulled, the sun broke through the dun clouds, and through the dazzling snow the travellers broke a path to Grand River. Here again the sides were frozen. A black current dashed down the middle.
"Danger. Cannot cross," said the Indian guide in the sign language of his race.
Dr. Whitman set his lips as Washington did that night on the Delaware, and rode to the edge of the ice. He tried to force the animal in, but he sat back on his haunches.
"Push," commanded the doctor.
Lovejoy and the guide pushed. Down, down they went, the doctor and the horse, completely out of sight, then rising like Poseidon on the foam, they battled with the current. Sweeping far below they reached the other shore, and the doctor leaped upon the ice. With his master's aid the dripping steed clambered after. Lovejoy and the guide followed with the packhorses, and all soon melted their coats of icy mail before a blazing bonfire. Another month of cold and hunger,
