An hour afterwards we started again, and now bowled along famously. Our route lay down the valley of the Umatilla, and as the road was a little sandy, the rain had made it just good for travelling. L. and I, with our baggage and driver, were no load at all for four such gamey nags, especially over a descending grade, and soon after dark we rolled into "Wells' Springs"--42 miles from "Meacham's." Here we encountered a motley crowd of teamsters, miners, and others, all very rough, _en route_ to Idaho and Montana. "Wells' Springs" was a shabby ranch, and we had no intention of stopping there, but were unable to go on--one of our horses becoming suddenly sick. The house was dirty, and the supper poor and badly cooked; so that we could readily believe the slouchy, slatternly landlady, when in the course of the meal she remarked to one of her rough guests, "O, we never care for puttin' on _style_ here! Only for raal substantials!" Supper over, there was a general smoke and talk, and how those rough fellows did talk! At bedtime, we were put into a little closet, partitioned off from the rest, while the main crowd quartered around "loose" on the floor outside. The last thing we heard, two "bull-whackers" were disputing as to who I was--one insisting I was Gen. Grant, and the other contending I was only Inspector-General U. S. A.! We soon went heavily to sleep; the next morning, when I awoke, the same chaps were disputing still! [Illustration: OREGON INDIAN.] Next morning, our sick horse was better, but still not himself. We left "Wells' Spring," however, at 7 A. M. on a walk, but soon achieved a trot, and were getting on quite satisfactorily again, when our ambulance struck a stone and smash went one of the rear springs. Two of its leaves showed old breaks, and it was a mystery how it ever stood the rough and tumble drive across the Mountains. Again our Le Grande rope came into play, and breaking a box to pieces we happened to have along, we soon succeeded in splicing up the spring, so as to make it hold. An hour's drive more, however, over a descending road, took us into Umatilla without further accident, and we hauled up at the _Metropolitan_, at 11 A. M. having come eighteen miles. We were just too late for the tri-weekly boat, down the Columbia to Portland, which we had been aiming at for a week--she having left an hour or so before. If it had not been for our break-down in the Mountains, or for our sick horse, we would have made Umatilla either early in the morning, or late the night before, and thus saved two days. As it was, there was no use lamenting it--we had done our best--and besides a little time for rest and writing was not unwelcome.