no longer have to grope in the dark, along doubtful and unknown trails, but it all the more made Whitman anxious to push forward. They paused only long enough to inquire for news from the States, and to purchase a few needed supplies. It was still a long journey, and as it proved, more perilous to life than any portion they had already passed. Their next point was Bent's Fort on the head waters of the Arkansas River, now in Colorado. It was a cheerless, dreary plains journey, with none of the magnificent scenery of the mountain route to keep them company. Water was often scarce, as well as wood, except along the small streams. The intensely cold winter and deep snows had made the big gray wolves a menace to life of men and beasts. One very cold night they reached a little river which had no wood on the side they camped, but was plentiful on the opposite bank. Whitman seized his ax, but found the ice would break under his feet. He then lay flat upon the ice, wormed himself across, skated a bountiful supply across the glossy surface, and then returned in safety as he had gone.
Unfortunately, one of his heavy blows split his ax-handle. When he returned to his tent, he took a piece of rawhide, wrapped the spliced pieces carefully, and threw it down at the door of the tent. In the morning it was discovered that some thieving wolf attracted by the rawhide had stolen the
