er, now that he knew it to be midnight.

"Will it ever be morning?" he groaned. "Four long hours at least before
there will be light. I don't know how I am going to stand it."

Now, there was attached to the wagon-train one of those universally
despised but useful animals, a donkey, the private property of a man
from Iowa, who expected to make it of service in California. The animal
was tethered near the camp, and was generally quiet. But to-night he was
wakeful, and managed about midnight to slip his tether, and wandered
off. Peabody did not observe his escape. His vigilance was somewhat
relaxed, and with his head down he gave way to mournful reflection.
Suddenly the donkey, who was now but a few rods distant, uplifted his
voice in a roar which the night stillness made louder than usual. It was
too much for the overwrought nerves of the sentinel. He gave a shriek of
terror, fired wildly in the air, and sank fainting to the ground. Of
course the camp was roused. Men jumped to their feet, and, rubbing their
eyes, gazed around them in bewilderment.

It was not long before the truth dawned upon them. There lay the
sentinel, insensible from fright, his discharged weapon at his feet, and
the almost equally terrified donkey was in active flight, making the air
vocal with his peculiar cries.

There was a great shout of laughter, in the midst of which Peabody
recovered consciousness.

"Where am I?" he asked, looking about him wildly, and he instinctively
felt for his scalp, which he was relieved to find still in its place.

"What's the matter?" asked the leader. "What made you fire?"

"I--I thought it was the Indians," faltered Peabody. "I thought I heard
their horrid war-whoop."

"Not very complimentary to the Indians to compare them with donkeys,"
said Miles.

Lawrence Peabody was excused from duty for the remainder of the night,
his place being taken by Miles and Tom in turn.

It was a long time before he heard the last of his ridiculous panic, but
he was not sensitive as to his reputation for courage, and he bore it,
on the whole, pretty well.

CHAPTER XXVI.

MR. PEABODY IS WORSTED.

The traveler of to-day who is whirled across the continent in six days
and a half has little conception of what the overland journey was in
the year 1850. Week after week and month after month slipped away
between the start and the arrival on the western slope of the Sierra
Nevadas. Delicate women and children of tender