turned back to the foot of the lake."

These emigrants did not lack in health, strength, or resolution,
but here they were in surroundings absolutely new to them. A sort
of panic seized them now. They scattered; their organization
disintegrated. All thought of conjoint action, of a social
compact, a community of interests, seems to have left them. It
was a history of every man for himself, or at least every family
for itself. All track of the road was now lost under the snow. At
the last pitch up to the summit of the Sierras precipitous cliffs
abounded. No one knew the way. And now the snows came once again.

"The emigrants suffered a thousand deaths. The pitiless snow came
down in large, steady masses. All understood that the storm meant
death. One of the Indians silently wrapped his blanket about him
and in deepest dejection seated himself beside a tall pine. In
this position he passed the entire night, only moving
occasionally to keep from being covered with snow. Mrs. Reed
spread down a shawl, placed her four children--Virginia, Patty,
James, and Thomas--thereon, and putting another shawl over them,
sat by the side of her babies during all the long hours of
darkness. Every little while she was compelled to lift the upper
shawl and shake off the rapidly accumulating snow.

"With slight interruptions, the storm continued several days. The
mules and oxen that had always hovered about camp were blinded
and bewildered by the storm, and straying away were literally
buried alive in the drifts. What pen can describe the horror of
the position in which the emigrants found themselves? It was
impossible to move through the deep, soft snow without the