So far as could be prophesied on facts apparent, the journey out to Oregon had ended in disaster almost before it was well begun.
Bearded men at smoking fires looked at one another in silence, or would not look at all.

Elan, morale, esprit de corps were gone utterly.
Stout Caleb Price walked down the wagon lines, passing fourscore men shaking in their native agues, not yet conquered.

Women, pale, gaunt, grim, looked at him from limp sunbonnets whose stays had been half dissolved.

Children whimpered.

Even the dogs, curled nose to tail under the wagons, growled surlily.