In some way, I know not how, it seemed to me that I was growing older.
We had been out more than two weeks when finally we reached the great valley along which lay the western highway of the old Oregon trail, now worn deep and dusty by countless wheels.

Our progress had not been very rapid, and we had lost time on two occasions in hunting up strayed animals.

But, here at last, I saw the road of the old fur traders, of Ashley and Sublette and Bridger, of Carson and Fremont, later of Kearney, Sibley, Marcy, one knew not how many Army men, who had for years been fighting back the tribes and making ready this country for white occupation.

As I looked at this wild, wide region, treeless, fruitless, it seemed to me that none could want it.

The next thought was the impression that, no matter how many might covet it, it was exhaustless, and would last forever.