Our company consisted of twelve four-mule teams, a loose herd of over 50 mules, and several merchants going to St. Louis. Water was plentiful but fuel was scarce. Wagons being generally empty, we put a pitch pine log in each, hauling them across a stretch of country without wood for 200 miles and burying them in the sand until our return in the fall. By the first of August we were on our way home. Besides Mormon emigration, the road was lined with many going to California, and Oregon, going and coming and to Pike’s Peak. The "goings" were full of expectation and visions of huge nuggets of yellow stuff. The "comings" were disgusted. On their wagons going was inscribed, "Pike's Peak or Bust." Right beside it coming, "Busted. by ——" They wanted to hang editors for lying. Out captain, Feramorz Little, was a first-class plainsman, so we made a good trip, arriving at Salt Lake City the first week in October. We met some Indians, but they were generally peaceable that year. I then worked on a cattle ranch in Tooele Valley.