knowledge of just what was required.

The time had passed, two days before; but--no sign of our man! We
wrote, we telegraphed, we walked back and forth to every train; but
still he did not come. Had this man, too, failed us?

Then "Jimmy" came--just the night before we were to leave. And never
was a man more heartily welcome!

With James Fagen of San Francisco our party was complete. He was an
Irish-American, aged 22 years, a strong, active, and willing chap. To
be sure, he was younger, and not so experienced at "roughing it" as we
had hoped. But his good qualities, we were sure, would make up for
what was lacking.

Evening found us encamped a half mile below the town, the county
bridge. Our preparations were finished--even to the final purchase of
odds and ends; with ammunition for shot-gun and rifle. We threw our
sleeping-bags on the dry ground close to the river's edge, and, all
our anxieties gone, we turned our faces to the stars and slept.

At daybreak we were aroused by the thunder of hoofs on the bridge
above us, and the shouts of cowboys driving a large herd of
half-broken horses. We tumbled into our clothes, splashed our faces
with ice-cold water from the river, and hurried over to the hotel for
a last breakfast.

Then we sat down--in the little hotel at Green River City--as others
had done before, to write last messages to those who were nearest and
dearest to us. A telegram to our parents in an Eastern city; and