dry and composed of sand and rock. Our
way followed the sand-bottoms between the hills. And the sand-bottoms
were bare, save for spots of scrub, with here and there short tufts of
dry and withered grass. Water there was none, nor sign of water, except
for washed gullies that told of ancient and torrential rains.

My father was the only one who had horses to his wagon. The wagons went
in single file, and as the train wound and curved I saw that the other
wagons were drawn by oxen. Three or four yoke of oxen strained and
pulled weakly at each wagon, and beside them, in the deep sand, walked
men with ox-goads, who prodded the unwilling beasts along. On a curve I
counted the wagons ahead and behind. I knew that there were forty of
them, including our own; for often I had counted them before. And as I
counted them now, as a child will to while away tedium, they were all
there, forty of them, all canvas-topped, big and massive, crudely
fashioned, pitching and lurching, grinding and jarring over sand and sage-
brush and rock.

To right and left of us, scattered along the train, rode a dozen or
fifteen men and youths on horses. Across their pommels were
long-barrelled rifles. Whenever any of them drew near to our wagon I
could see that their faces, under the dust, were drawn and anxious like
my father's. And my father, like them, had a long-barrelled rifle close
to hand as he drove.

Also, to one side, limped a score or more of foot-sore, yoke-galled,
skeleton oxen, that ever paused to nip at the occasional tufts of
withered grass, and that ever were prodded on by the tired-faced youths
who herded them. Sometimes one or another of these oxen would pause and
low, and such lowing seemed as ominous as all else about me.

Far, far away I have a memory of having lived, a smaller lad, by the tree-
lined banks of a stream. And as the wagon jolts along, and I sway on the
seat with my father, I continually return and dwell upon that pleasant
water flowing between the trees. I have a sense that for an interminable
period I have lived in a wagon and travelled on, ever on, with this
present company.

But strongest of all upon me is what is strong upon all the company,
namely, a sense of drifting to doom. Our way was like a funeral march.
Never did a laugh arise. Never did I hear a happy tone of voice. Neither
peace nor ease marched with us. The faces of the men and youths who
outrode the train were grim, set, hopeles