Rivers barred their way.
These they forded or swam, or ferried a makeshift raft of logs, as
seemed most fit. Once their raft came to grief in the maw of a
snarling current, and they laid up two days to dry their saturated
belongings. Once their horses, impelled by some mysterious home
yearning, hit the back trail in a black night of downpour, and they
trudged half a day through wet grass and dripping scrub to overtake the
truants. Thunderstorms drove up, shattering the hush of the land with
ponderous detonations, assaulting them with fierce bursts of rain.
Haps and mishaps alike they accepted with an equable spirit and the
true philosophy of the trail--to take things as they come. When rain
deluged them, there was always shelter to be found and fire to warm
them. If the flies assailed too fiercely, a smudge brought easement of
that ill. And when the land lay smiling under a pleasant sun, they
rode light-hearted and care-free, singing or in silent content, as the
spirit moved. If they rode alone, they felt none of that loneliness
which is so integral a part of the still, unpeopled places. Each day
was something more than a mere toll of so many miles traversed.
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