In he went, and the trusty old mule was swimming faithfully, and had reached the middle of the river, when Field, as he afterwards told me, to hurry the mule, gave a gentle jerk on the bridle, when, to his utter astonishment, the mule made a complete somerset backwards plunging Field, the pack, and himself entirely under the water, except his heels which appeared above the water as his head went under.  In a moment Field popped up and, after shaking his head as a swimmer will do after taking a plunge, cast about to take his bearings, or to determine just where he was, and began to paddle with his hands, much as he did when the canoes were upset on the river, or somewhat after the style of a swimming dog.  On coming to the surface, the mule cast a glance at the still living, but unloaded portion of his cargo, then made a bee line for the shore which he had so recently left.  While Field continued to paddle and float down the river, I dismounted and followed along the bank, trying to encourage him to renewed efforts to float ashore.  Finally he passed behind a clump of willows out of sight; but soon I heard him call for help and on going a little further down, found him stuck fast in the mud.  I waded waist deep into that mud, and literally dragged him out, almost a mile below his starting point.

As we were struggling in this muddy swamp, Field said he wondered why some of this superfluous water was not distributed over those dry deserts from which we had so recently come.  I told him, politely, that I thought that a man of his age, ability, opportunities, and nationality, (you know he was quite proud of being an Englishman) ought to know why the moisture was not so distributed, and that I was too illiterate to enlighten him on that point, but that, when opportunity offered, he might consult some one who knew more of natural science than I did.  I informed him that I had an idea that if any considerable portion of the water of that river had been distributed over that desert that we would not have had the experience of the last fifteen days, whereupon he very plainly intimated that I did not have much sense, or, in other words, he called me a d—­d fool.

After reaching solid ground and resting for a little while, we returned to the place from which he had started out on his perilous voyage, and where I had hastily left my horse.  We found the horse and mule quietly grazing with their packs on their backs.  The faithful old mule had the appearance of having been wet, but was now almost dry, yet not so dry, internally, as he had been several days before.

What shall we do now?  We are perhaps two hundred or more miles from any white settlement.  We do not know that Fort Uinta is occupied.  Shall we make another attempt to cross the river?  I asked my brave friend if he was willing to again mount the mule and make another attempt, when he again exclaimed, “You must be a d—­d fool!” I then, pretending to have a little courage, asked him if he would follow provided I would lead, whereupon he declared most emphatically that under no conditions would he again attempt to swim across that river.  I had not had his experience, but fear of being drowned was quite sufficient to prevent me from undertaking the perilous task, more especially after witnessing his failure.