The fording of the Platte was made in quick time to foil the quicksands. The North Platte was now scarce eighteen miles across the narrow tongue of land separating the two rivers above their juncture. It was struck at Ash Hollow. Ash Hollow had a grocery store for emigrant trade. The sign read “BUTTE, REGGS, FLOWER and MELE.” Captain Brown halted here long enough to buy a few crackers and some sardines. “Thought we’d stock up while we can,” he explained to Dave. “These and what buffalo meat we have will carry us quite a way. Laramie’s one hundred and sixty miles, and I’m going to push right through.” The four stout mules ambled briskly at a good eight miles an hour, following the trail into the west, up the south bank of the river. The trail was broad and plain, but it was not so crowded with emigrants as it had been before the Pike’s Peak portion of it had branched off. However, there still were emigrants; and there were many bull trains bound out for Laramie and Fort Bridger and Salt Lake, for this was the main Overland Trail, dating back fifty years. The ambulance rolled on without slackening, except for sand or short rises, until after sunset. Then the captain gave the word to stop. By this time he knew Dave’s history, and Davy was liking him immensely. They clambered stiffly out. The driver and corporal unhitched the mules: and while the corporal made a fire for coffee, the driver (who was a private) put the mules out to graze. “We’ll take four hours, Mike,” said the captain to the corporal. “Then we’ll make another spurt until daylight.” “Yes, sir,” answered the corporal, saluting. “You’d do well to crawl in the wagon and sleep, after supper, Dave,” advised the captain to Davy. “We’ll be travelling the rest of the night. Can you stand it?” Davy laughed. A great question, that, to ask of a boy who’d just been a bull whacker walking across the plains! Nevertheless, Davy took a nap in the bottom of the ambulance; and more than a nap. When he awakened, he had been aroused by the jolting of his bed. A buffalo robe had been thrown over him, the captain was sitting in a corner snugly wrapped, and by the light of a half moon the ambulance was again upon its way. In the morning, when they once more halted to rest and feed the mules, the country was considerably rougher, with hills and fantastic rocks breaking the sagy, gravelly landscape. The white-topped wagons of emigrants and the smoke of their camp-fires were in sight, before and behind; and not far ahead a bull outfit were driving their bulls into the wagon corral to yoke up for the day’s trail. Breakfast was coffee and buffalo meat; but Corporal Mike mounted one of the mules and rode off the trail. When he returned he had some sage chickens and an antelope. The sides of the ambulance had been rolled up; and about noon, pointing ahead the captain remarked to Davy: “That’s Laramie Peak, beyond the post. We’ve got only about eighty miles to go and we’ll be in bright and early.”