“They do say you can dig out the gold with a shovel,” quavered the woman. “We hear tell you can dig out a pound a day. Were you ever there?” “No,” answered Billy. “But we’re going. Aren’t you a little early?” “Wall, we reckoned we’d start ’arly, an’ make our pile ’fore the other folks got thar,” explained the driver. “Thar’s a tarnel lot o’ people gathered behind us, an’ those that come later won’t find ’nough grass for their critters. Gee-up, Buck! Spot! Get along with you.” Creaking, the wagon resumed its way. The man with the hand-cart pushed in the wake. The mud was ankle deep, and Dave felt sorry for the whole outfit. “Better stop on the hill and rest,” bade Billy. “Guess we can give you some coffee.” “Nope, thank ye, stranger,” said the driver. “We’re goin’ on through.” And he swung his whip, urging his oxen. Billy and Dave and the girls raced ahead; and when the wagon and the hand-cart, with the oxen and men alike panting, toiled up hill near the Cody house Mrs. Cody rushed out with a pail of hot coffee. But the emigrants scarcely halted to drink it. Even the women were anxious to proceed, as if already they saw the gold. “Poor things,” sighed Mrs. Cody, while the girls waved goodby to the two children. “They’ll have a hard time.” But Billy and Dave watched until the “Pike’s Peak or Bust” sign was only a blur, and the wagon a crawling dot. “Shucks!” said Billy. “If it wasn’t for mother and school I’d join ’em. But I wouldn’t go by the regular Overland Trail. When we go we’ll take the Smoky Hill trail, Dave; up the Kansas River, to Fort Riley, and on out by the Smoky Hill branch or the Republican. That’s shorter.” This “Pike’s Peak or Bust” outfit was only the first of a long series of gold-field “pilgrims” (as they were called), all enthusiastic. And soon Leavenworth City was a sight! As Mr. Baxter had predicted, the city was scarcely large enough to hold the new-comers. Two and three steamboats a day arrived, loaded to the gunwales, at the levee, bringing up from St. Louis and Kansas City Eastern and Southern people, their teams and goods. The streets were thronged with the strangers, young and old, in all kinds of costumes and of all professions――farmers, lawyers, ministers, doctors, merchants, teachers――buying supplies and exchanging opinions. The lodging houses and hotels and spare rooms were overflowing, and around the city and in the vacant lots were hundreds of tents, where were camped overland parties of men and whole families. A constant procession of “pilgrims” wended slow way through the Salt Creek Valley, past the Cody home and the Shields home, and northwestward to the main Salt Lake Overland Trail which led up the Platte River; at the South Platte they might branch for the “diggin’s” by a cut-off. Many of the wagon hoods bore that queer legend “Pike’s Peak or Bust!” Some men trundled wheel-barrows, loaded, and a few were trying to carry packs through on their backs.