They wheeled from the
west across the north over the east and down to the south. Ox teams,
prairie schooners, pack trains, horsemen came to it from the barren
lands that guarded the gates of California, from the tumultuous rivers
and fragrant forests of the Oregon country, from the trapper's paths
and the thin, icy streams of the Rockies, from the plains where the
Platte sung round its sand bars, from the sun-drenched Spanish deserts.
All roads led to it, and down each one came the slow coil of the long
trains and the pacing files of mounted men. Under its walls they
rested and repaired their waste, ere they took the trail again intent
on the nation's work of conquest.
The fort's centripetal attraction had caught the doctor's party, and
was drawing it to the focus. They reckoned the days on their fingers
and pressed forward with a feverish hurry. They were like wayworn
mariners who sight the lights of a port. Dead desires, revived, blew
into a glow extinguished vanities. They looked at each other, and for
the first time realized how ragged and unkempt they were, then dragged
out best clothes from the bottom of their chests and hung their
looking-glasses to the limbs of trees.
Pages:
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354