But Hank Monk said, ‘Keep your seat, Horace, and I’ll get you there on
time!’–and you bet you he did, too, what was left of him!”
At Fort Bridger, some days after this, we took on board a cavalry
sergeant, a very proper and soldierly person indeed. From no other man
during the whole journey, did we gather such a store of concise and well-
arranged military information. It was surprising to find in the desolate
wilds of our country a man so thoroughly acquainted with everything
useful to know in his line of life, and yet of such inferior rank and
unpretentious bearing. For as much as three hours we listened to him
with unabated interest. Finally he got upon the subject of trans-
continental travel, and presently said:
“I can tell you a very laughable thing indeed, if you would like to
listen to it. Horace Greeley went over this road once. When he was
leaving Carson City he told the driver, Hank Monk, that he had an
engagement to lecture at Placerville and was very anxious to go through
quick. Hank Monk cracked his whip and started off at an awful pace. The
coach bounced up and down in such a terrific way that it jolted the
buttons all off of Horace’s coat, and finally shot his head clean through
the roof of the stage, and then he yelled at Hank Monk and begged him to
go easier–said he warn’t in as much of a hurry as he was awhile ago.
But Hank Monk said, ‘Keep your seat, Horace, and I’ll get you there on
time!’–and you bet you he did, too, what was left of him!”
When we were eight hours out from Salt Lake City a Mormon preacher got in
with us at a way station–a gentle, soft-spoken, kindly man, and one whom
any stranger would warm to at first sight. I can never forget the pathos
that was in his voice as he told, in simple language, the story of his
people’s wanderings and unpitied sufferings. No pulpit eloquence was
ever so moving and so beautiful as this outcast’s picture of the first
Mormon pilgrimage across the plains, struggling sorrowfully onward to the
land of its banishment and marking its desolate way with graves and
watering it with tears. His words so wrought upon us that it was a
relief to us all when the conversation drifted into a more cheerful
channel and the natural features of the curious country we were in came
under treatment. One matter after another was pleasantly discussed, and
at length the stranger said:
“I can tell you a most laughable thing indeed, if you would like to
listen to it. Horace Greeley went over this road once. When he was
leaving Carson City he told the driver, Hank Monk, that he had an
engagement to lecture in Placerville, and was very anxious to go through
quick. Hank Monk cracked his whip and started off at an awful pace. The
coach bounced up and down in such a terrific way that it jolted the
buttons all off of Horace’s coat, and finally shot his head clean through
the roof of the stage, and then he yelled at Hank Monk and begged him to
go easier–said he warn’t in as much of a hurry as he was awhile ago.
But Hank Monk said, ‘Keep your seat, Horace, and I’ll get you there on
time!’–and you bet you bet you he did, too, what was left of him!”
Ten miles out of Ragtown we found a poor wanderer who had lain down to
die. He had walked as long as he could, but his limbs had failed him at
last. Hunger and fatigue had conquered him. It would have been inhuman
to leave him there. We paid his fare to Carson and lifted him into the
coach. It was some little time before he showed any very decided signs
of life; but by dint of chafing him and pouring brandy between his lips
we finally brought him to a languid consciousness. Then we fed him a
little, and by and by he seemed to comprehend the situation and a
grateful light softened his eye. We made his mail-sack bed as