poor boy had died. No one knew him. He was from the Bannock
mines, was ill-clad, had no baggage or money, and his fare was paid
to Denver. He had said that he was going back to Germany. That
was all we knew. So at sunrise the next morning we buried him at
the foot of the grand mountains that are snow-covered and icy all
the year round, far away from the Faderland, where it may be, some
poor mother is crying for her darling who will not come.

. . . .

We strike the North Platte on the 18th. The fare at the stations is
daily improving, and we often have antelope steaks now. They tell
us of eggs not far off, and we encourage (by a process not wholly
unconnected with bottles) the drivers to keep their mules in
motion.

Antelopes by the thousand can be seen racing the plains from the
coach windows.

At Elk Mountain we encounter a religious driver named Edward
Whitney, who never swears at the mules. This has made him
distinguished all over the plains. This pious driver tried to
convert the Doctor, but I am mortified to say that his efforts were
not crowned with success, Fort Halleck is a mile from Elk, and
here are some troops of the Ohio 11th regiment, under the command
of Major Thomas L. Mackey.

On the 20th we reach Rocky Thomas's justly celebrated station at 5
in the morning, and have a breakfast of hashed black-tailed deer,
antelope steaks, ham, boiled bear, honey, eggs, coffee, tea, and