Across the Continent, too long trains of lumbering wagons drawn
by oxen slowly wound. They were tented over and were so huge that
whole families lived in them, and they were given the name of prairie
schooners. All day long they crawled along and as dusk fell they
gathered into groups. Fires were lit, tents pitched for the night.
Then early next morning the travelers would be astir again, and so
day after day through lonely uninhabited wildernesses the caravans
moved on.
In one unending stream great tented wagons, carts, carriages, horsemen
or even walkers moved along, all going in the same direction, to
the golden land of the West.
Many were the dangers these adventurous travelers had to brave.
There were dangers from hostile Indians, and from wild animals,
from lack of food and water, and above all from sickness. Cholera
broke out in these slow-moving trains, and many a man who had set
out gaily found a grave by the wayside, and never reached the land
of his golden hopes.
The road too was strewn with broken down wagons, and the bones
of oxen and horses, and many had to finish their weary journey on
foot.
But in spite of all mischances hundreds and thousands reached the
gold fields, and all over the Sacramento Valley, or wherever gold
was found, little towns sprang up.
These were towns of wooden shanties and canvas tents.
Pages:
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594