All my old
life seemed to be slipping back of me, into a far oblivion. A feeling of
rest, of confidence and of uplift came to me. It was difficult to be
sad. The days were calm, the nights were full of peace. Nature seemed to
be loftily above all notice of small frettings. Many things became more
clear to me, as I rode and reflected. In some way, I know not how, it
seemed to me that I was growing older.
We had been out more than two weeks when finally we reached the great
valley along which lay the western highway of the old Oregon trail, now
worn deep and dusty by countless wheels. Our progress had not been very
rapid, and we had lost time on two occasions in hunting up strayed
animals. But, here at last, I saw the road of the old fur traders, of
Ashley and Sublette and Bridger, of Carson and Fremont, later of
Kearney, Sibley, Marcy, one knew not how many Army men, who had for
years been fighting back the tribes and making ready this country for
white occupation. As I looked at this wild, wide region, treeless,
fruitless, it seemed to me that none could want it. The next thought was
the impression that, no matter how many might covet it, it was
exhaustless, and would last forever.
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