hubs of the wheels. The current was strong, and the horses had to
struggle hard to gain the opposite bank. I began to thank my patron saint
that the Snake River was crossed.

Crossed? Oh, no! A narrow strip of pebbly road, and the high willows
suddenly parted to disclose another stream like the last, but a
little deeper, a little wider, a little worse. We crossed it. I made
no comments.

At the third stream the horses rebelled. There are many things four
horses can do on the edge of a wicked looking river to make it
uncomfortable, but at last they had to go in, plunging madly, and
dragging the wagon into the stream nearly broadside, which made at least
one in the party consider the frailty of human contrivances when matched
against a raging flood.

Soon there was another stream. I shall not describe it. When we
eventually got through it, the driver stopped his horses to rest, wiped
his brow, went around the wagon and pulled a few ropes tighter, cut a
willow stick and mended his broken whip, gave a hitch to his trousers,
and remarked as he started the horses:

"Now, when we get through the Snake River on here a piece, we'll be
all right."

"I thought we had been crossing it for the past hour," I was feminine
enough to gasp.

"Oh, yes, them's forks of it; but the main stream's on ahead, and it's
mighty treacherous, too," was the calm reply.