The emigrant train to which our young friends belonged ran into bad weather, while crossing northeastern Kansas, and again before reaching Fort Kearny, in Nebraska. A cold, drizzling rain set in which made people and animals so uncomfortable that a halt of nearly two days was made. The oxen and horses cropped the lush grass which grew exuberantly, and their masters spent most of the time in the big covered wagons, where they were protected from the chilling storm. Some read the few books and newspapers brought with them, a number played cards, smoked and exchanged reminiscences, yawned and longed for the skies to clear. During the whole period, Shagbark was in one of his grumpy moods, and rarely passed a word with any one. One night he told Mr. Fleming the weather would clear before morning. He proved to be right, as every one expected, and the cavalcade resumed its plodding tramp westward. Then for days the weather was perfect. The sun shone from the clear blue heavens, unflecked except here and there by a rift of snowy cloud. The air was bright and clear, with just enough crispness to make walking or riding pleasant. The country was level or rolling. The eye, wandering over every point of the compass, caught no misty mountain range or peak, and the work of the patient oxen was play compared to what it would be when they should have entered the rougher regions farther toward the setting sun. The course most of the time was in sight of the Platte River, which, swollen by the melting snows near the headwaters and the recent rains, was a broad, majestic stream. Yet there were times during the summer drought, when one could pick his way across dry shod. More than once, as the company went into camp, they saw the twinkling fires of another party who had also halted for the night. Once these starlike points glimmered to the south, once to the northwest and twice to the north, on the other side of the Platte. When it is stated that more than 40,000 persons crossed the plains in 1849, and that later 500 wagons were counted in one day as they lumbered past Fort Kearny, the wonder is that more trains did not meet and mingle. This was often done when a common danger threatened from Indians. Jethro Mix and Alden Payne, with their ponies on a walk, were riding side by side, and the colored youth had just made his decision not to reveal at that time the secret which weighed so heavily upon him, when his friend exclaimed: “Helloa, Jeth! do you see that?” In answer to his inquiring look, Alden, who had turned part way round in his saddle, pointed to the rear. Far in the distance, a dark object was seen, which was quickly recognized as a horseman coming with his animal on a dead run. He was not in a direct line behind the train, but a little to the south. If he kept to his course he would pass a couple of hundred yards to the south.