to the extremely dangerous crossing of the
Platte River, owing to its treacherous quicksand bottom.

Despite the old proverb, "Never cross a bridge till you get to it," we
had, because of the very absence of a bridge, been running ahead of
ourselves during the entire trip, to make the dreaded crossing over
this deceptive and gormandizing stream. We had now caught up with our
imaginings and found them to be realities. There was not much joshing
among the boys that morning as we made the rounds of the horses and
wagons and saw that every buckle and strap and gear was in the best
possible condition, for to halt in the stream to adjust a mishap would
mean death. "Once started, never stop," was the ominous admonition of
the hour.

About 9 o'clock, all things being in readiness, two of us were sent out
to wade across the river and mark the route by sticking in the sand long
willow branches, with which we were laden for that purpose. The route
staked, we returned and the train lined up. It need not require any
great feat of imagination on the part of the reader to hear how
dirge-like the first hoofs and wheels sounded as they parted the waters
and led the way. Every man except the drivers waded alongside the horses
to render assistance if it should be required. Mrs. Wadsworth was
remarkably brave, sitting her wagon with white, but calm face. Scarcely
a word was spoken during the entire crossing, which occupied about
twenty-five minutes. We passed on the way the remains of two or three
wagons standing on end and nearly buried in the sand. They were grewsome
reminders of what had been, as well as of what might be. But without a
halt or break, we drove clear through and on to dry land. To say that we
all felt happy at seeing the crossing behind us does not half express
our feelings. The nervous strain had been terrible, and at no time in
our journey had we been so nearly taxed to the utmost. One man dug out a
demijohn of brandy from his traps and treated all hands, remarking,
"That the success of that undertaking merits something extraordinary."

The crossing was made at the South Fork of the Platte, immediately where
it flows into the main river. What is now known as North Platte and
South Platte was then known as North Fork and South Fork of Platte
River.

It was at the South Fork and just before we crossed that I shot and
killed my first buffalo. It was also very early in the morning, and
while I was still on guard duty.