"How can you ford this stream with horses?" I asked Emmett.

"We must take our chances," replied he. "We'll hitch two teams to
one wagon, and run the horses. I've forded here at worse stages
than this. Once a team got stuck, and I had to leave it; another
time the water was high, and washed me downstream.

Emmett sent his son into the stream on a mule. The rider lashed
his mount, and plunging, splashing, crossed at a pace near a
gallop. He returned in the same manner, and reported one bad
place near the other side.

Jones and I got on the first wagon and tried to coax up the dogs,
but they would not come. Emmett had to lash the four horses to
start them; and other Mormons riding alongside, yelled at them,
and used their whips. The wagon bowled into the water with a
tremendous splash. We were wet through before we had gone twenty
feet. The plunging horses were lost in yellow spray; the stream
rushed through the wheels; the Mormons yelled. I wanted to see,
but was lost in a veil of yellow mist. Jones yelled in my ear,
but I could not hear what he said. Once the wagon wheels struck a
stone or log, almost lurching us overboard. A muddy splash
blinded me. I cried out in my excitement, and punched Jones in
the back. Next moment, the keen exhilaration of the ride gave way
to horror. We seemed to drag, and almost stop. Some one roared:
"Horse down!" One instant of painful suspense, in which
imagination pictured another tragedy added to the record of this
deceitful river--a moment filled with intense feeling, and
sensation of splash, and yell, and fury of action; then the three