Given space, I could make of this in itself a very interesting story. Green Campbell’s second wife was Eleanor Young, a reporter on a Salt Lake newspaper, and daughter-in-law of the famous old Brigham himself, who hated all peoples not of the Mormon faith. It is not recorded that the lady said to her man, like Ruth of old, “Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.” But the inference is, she did. Campbell did not go Mormon. Indeed, he was poison to the saints after he contested the election of his Mormon opponent, Bishop Cannon, and took unto himself the Canadian’s seat in Congress after it had been occupied by the alien for nearly two years. Several of the old stage drivers, after closing days, married and settled down in Wetmore. Robert Sewell married Cicily Locknane; Lon Huff married Clara Rising; Bill Evans married Kate Porter. Through their activities on the stage line, and breathing the free atmosphere of frontier life, these men were all moulded pretty much into a like pattern. Good story-tellers all, they lent themselves to the occupation without stint. Jovial and courteous at all times, they shunned work—unless it be with horses. Lon Huff drove the hearse for the local undertaker. He had a black team for adults, and a team of white horses for children. Robert Sewell, the outstanding character, known on the plains as “Bob Ridley,” owned a livery stable here. Shall I tell the auto-minded young sprouts that the livery stable, now in the discard, was an enterprise of the horse-and-buggy days—a place where rigs were kept for hire? Sewell’s wife, Cicily, ran a hotel. Her mother, Mrs. D. M. Locknane, had conducted a famous eating house just west of Granada during overland days. Those two early-day enterprises of the Sewells were known as the “Overland Livery Stable,” and the “Overland Hotel.” Bob Sewell had a record of killing three Indians and wounding a dozen more in a running fight near Cottonwood Springs. Ben Holladay gave him a gold watch for saving the stage and four mules. About the Old Trail, I have heard my uncle say that in the flush times of 1865 and 1866, when traffic was at its peak, there was hardly an hour of the day when one could not see the road lined for miles—one seeming endless procession moving westward. No other road ever had such a promiscuous, persevering throng—a weary plodding throng, whose way was fraught with many hardships, whose dead were left all along the Old Trail from the Missouri river to the Golden Gate. Other stage lines threaded the West and the Southwest—but the Overland has gone down in history as the greatest of them all.