The wheel-barrow man, pushing bravely, was in the van. His barrow wobbled, and the wheel was reinforced with rawhide, but he himself was as cheery as ever when the Big Blue outfit welcomed him. "Yes, terrible hard trip," he acknowledged. "Some of us near died with thirst, and I hear tell that several wagons were burnt for fuel, so's to cook food and keep the folks from starving. But those of us who are left are still going." "Same here," asserted Harry. "How far to the mountains, do you reckon?" "Better than a hundred miles, but we'll get there." The next day the pilgrims from the Smoky Hill trail and the pilgrims from the Republican trail traveled on together, with every eye eagerly set ahead, for the first sight of the mountains. "I see 'em! Hooray! "There's the land o' gold, boys!" "Those are the Rocky Mountains! We're almost through." "They're awful small for their size, aren't they?" quavered a woman. They did appear so. They were like a band of low hummocky clouds in the western horizon. But the next morning, when the outfits climbed over a gravelly ridge that grew a few pines, one after another they cheered joyfully again. Hats were waved, sunbonnets were flourished. The mountains seemed much closer--they loomed grandly in a semi-circle from south to north; their crests were white, their slopes were green and gray. "Where's Pike's Peak?" Everybody wanted to know that. The "Root Hog or Die" professor consulted his map, for information. "I rather think Pike's Peak is the last peak we see, to the south," he mused. "That to the far north is called Long's Peak." "Where are the diggin's, then?" "Well, they're somewhere in between." From the piny ridge the route descended along the side of a brushy valley pleasantly dotted with cottonwoods and other leafy trees, and struck the head of a creek course--and presently another trail on which, from the south, still other pilgrim outfits were hastening northward at best speed. Where the trail from the east joined with this second trail from the south a signboard faced, pointing north, with the words: "Santa Fe-Salt Lake Trail. Cherry Creek Diggin's, 70 m." "Cherry Creek at last!" affirmed Harry, that evening. "Whew, but that mountain air tastes good!" Now this combined trail on northwest to the diggin's was a well-traveled trail indeed, deep with sand and dust. Occasionally it dipped into the creek bed, which in places was wide enough and dry enough for the teams. The mountains were on the left--distant thirty miles, declared the professor, although the greenhorns declared they were within a short walk. High rolling plains were on the right. A few prospectors were encountered, already digging and washing in the creek, or scouting about. From the last night's camp a little bevy of lights could be seen, ahead--the diggin's at the mouth of the creek! During the next morning---- "There's the river! There's the Platte!" announced voices, indicating a line of cottonwoods before.