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 traders, stopping their train of carts at Fort Laramie on the Platte. "We always pack on mules from this point over the mountains."

"But we must take a wagon, on account of the women," said Dr. Whitman. "Did not Bonneville take carts over to Green River? Did not Ashley haul a cannon to Great Salt Lake?"

"Yes," admitted the traders, "and then Bridger tried it, but they all gave it up—left their carts in the mountains. Bonneville had no end of trouble—if he hadn't had a blacksmith along for constant repairs, he never could have got through. The fact is, it is not considered practicable."

Dr. Whitman had crossed those Alps before. If Bonneville took a wagon across, he could. "I know we can do it—I can almost see a road," said the dauntless doctor, with that positive assurance that always won half his battles.

"Go ahead, then," laughed the traders. "A good wheel route to Green River will double our profits. We will gladly send a man with you to help explore a way."

With the doctor's wagon and a trader's cart the little company pushed on, leaving Fort Laramie, the last outpost of civilized man, on the foothills at their rear. Dr. Whitman made a wagon route his special object of study. With now a tip-up and now a turn-over, and now a long detour among the ragged pines, he followed the way of the Great South Pass through the heart of the Rocky Mountains. Mr. Spalding brought the cows; W. H. Gray, an assistant, drove the packhorses. In smooth mountain meadows the women rode in the wagon; in shelving, rough defiles they mounted their horses, cheering their husbands over this barrier ridge