expression of suffering was scarcely relaxed. The tales of their
adventures and sufferings the author speaks of as more marvelous than
anything he had ever heard or read since his boyish acquaintance with
Robinson Crusoe and Ledyard. Some had come by the way of Santa Fe,
along the savage Gila hills--some had crossed the Great Desert, and
taken the road from El Paso to Sonora--some had passed through Mexico,
and, after beating about for months in the Pacific, had run into San
Deigo and abandoned their vessel--some had landed weary with a seven
months' voyage round Cape Horn--while others had wandered on foot
from Cape St. Lucas to San Deigo, over frightful deserts and rugged
mountains, a distance of nearly fifteen hundred miles, as they were
obliged to travel.

The Gila emigrants spoke with horror of the Great Desert west of the
Colorado--a land of drought and desolation--vast salt plains and hills
of drifting sand; the trails which they followed sown white with bones
of man and beast. Unburied corpses of emigrants and carcasses of mules
who had preceded them, making the hot air foul and loathsome. Wo to
the weak and faltering in such a journey! They were left alone to die
on the burning sands.

On the Sonora route, one of the party fell sick, and rode on behind
his companions, unable to keep pace with them for several days, yet
always arriving in camp a few hours later. At last he was missing.
Four days after, a negro, alone and on foot, came into camp and told
them that many miles back a man lying by the road had begged a little
water of him, and urged him to hurry on and bring assistance. The next
morning a company of Mexicans came up, and brought word that the man
was dying. But his old companions hesitated to go to his relief. The
negro thereupon retraced his steps over the desert, and reached the