When night came, I could not find it in my heart to camp. The cool of the evening invigorated the pony, and we pushed on. Finding that the road could be followed, though but dimly seen, I kept on the trail until a late hour, when I unsaddled and hobbled the pony. The saddle blanket was brought into use, and I was soon off in dreamland forgetting all about the dust, the trail, or the morrow. In the morning I awoke to find that the pony had wandered far off on the hillside, so far, in fact, that it required close scanning to discover him. To make matters worse, his hobbles had become loosened, giving him free use of all his feet, and he was in no mood to take the trail again. Coaxing was of no avail, driving would do no good. Taking an opportunity to seize his tail, I followed him around about over the plain and through the sage brush at a rapid gait; finally he slackened pace and I again became master. [Illustration: Hobbling the pony.] For the life of me I could not be sure of the direction of the trail after all this roaming over the plain at Bobby's heels, but I happened to take the right course. When the trail was found, there was the saddle to look for, and this was located with some difficulty. The sun was high when we started on our journey. A few hundred yards of travel brought uneasiness, as it was evident that we were not on the regular trail. Not knowing but this was some cut-off, I went on until the Columbia River bluff was reached and the great river was in sight, half a mile distant and several hundred feet lower. Taking a trail down the bluff that seemed more promising than the wagon tracks, I began to search for the road at the foot of the bluff, only to find every semblance of a road gone. I lost more than a half-day's precious time, and again was thrown into anxiety lest I had missed the long-sought train. The next incident that I remember vividly was my attempt to cross the Columbia, just below the mouth of the Snake River. I had seen but few Indians on the whole trip and, in fact, the camp I found there on the bank of the great river was the first I distinctly remember coming upon. I could not induce the Indians to cross me over; they seemed surly and unfriendly. Their behavior was so in contrast to that of the Indians on the Sound that I could not help wondering what it meant. No one, to my knowledge, lost his life at the hands of the Indians that season, but the next summer all or nearly all the travelers who ventured into that country unprotected were murdered. That night I camped late, opposite Wallula (old Fort Walla Walla), in a sand storm of great fury. I tethered my pony this time, and rolled myself up in the blanket, only to find myself fairly buried in the drifting sand in the morning. It required a great effort to creep out of the blanket, and an even greater effort to free the blanket from the accumulated sand. By this time the wind had gone down and comparative calm prevailed.