This must be the McDermott farm of which such stories had been told. All the way across the plains those in the train who had been to Oregon and were returning with their families had sung the praises of this model farm above Oregon City, of the wonderful yield of its grain fields, the fruitfulness of its orchard, the fatness of its long-horned cattle, ready for beef in the winter-time from standing belly deep in waving grasses.
The snug double cabin seemed a bit of heaven to a tired emigrant woman. With a mind leaping ahead she saw a comfortable cabin where the wagon with its tattered dust-gray cover was drawn up under the shelter of two immense fir trees. It was a dejected-looking Conestoga wagon with the woodwork shrunken and warped by the intense heat of the alkali plains. The wheels dished outward so that the tires had to be held in place with wire put on at judicious intervals. The body was scarred and gaping at the corners; the tongue had been broken and roughly spliced with a peeled pole. Two emaciated oxen, well hobbled, grazed eagerly near. The mind must be able to dwell in the future to endure the immediate present.
The 21st of November, 1843, this was. The wagon, one of the first ten to come clear through to Oregon City from Independence, Missouri, was part of the great train of one thousand emigrants known to history as “The great emigration of Oregon homebuilders.”
Martha Bainbridge had little time for gazing at scenery. She came swiftly down to the camp fire,
