It is greatly regretted that a more direct and complete account of the Death Valley experience of the Jayhawkers could not have been obtained for this work.  To be sure it was from the lips of a living witness told in many conversations, but no doubt many striking incidents were left out.  It is, however, a settled thing that these, and other individuals with whom he was immediately connected, were more intimately connected with the horrors of the sunken valley which was given its name by them, than were any other persons who ever crossed that desert region.

It will be considered that this was the most favorable time of year possible, and that during the spring or summer not one would have lived to tell the tale.

The Author, to his best, has done his duty to all, and concludes with the hope that this mite may authenticate one of the saddest chapters in the history of the Golden State.

CONCLUSION.

This story is not meant to be sensational, but a plain, unvarnished tale of truth—­some parts hard and very sad.  It is a narrative of my personal experience, and being in no sense a literary man or making any pretense as a writer, I hope the errors may be overlooked, for it has been to me a difficult story to tell, arousing as it did sad recollections of the past.  I have told it in the plainest, briefest way, with nothing exaggerated or overdone.  Those who traveled over the same or similar routes are capable of passing a just opinion of the story.

Looking back over more than 40 years, I was then a great lover of liberty, as well as health and happiness, and I possessed a great desire to see a new country never yet trod by civilized man, so that I easily caught the gold fever of 1849, and naught but a trip to that land of fabled wealth could cure me.

Geography has wonderfully changed since then.  Where Omaha now stands there was not a house in 1849.  Six hundred miles of treeless prairie without a house brought us to the adobe dwellings at Fort Laramie, and 400, more or less, were the long miles to Mormondom, still more than 700 miles from the Pacific Coast.  Passing over this wilderness was like going to sea without a compass.

Hence it will be seen that when we crossed a stream that was said to flow to the Pacific Ocean, myself and comrades were ready to adopt floating down its current as an easier road than the heated trail, and for three weeks, over rocks and rapids, we floated and tumbled down the deep canon of Green River till we emerged into an open plain and were compelled to come on shore by the Indians there encamped.  We had believed the Indians to be a war-like and cruel people, but when we made them understand where we wanted to go, they warned us of the great impassable Colorado Canon only two days ahead of us, and pointed out the road to “Mormonie” with their advice to take it.  This was Chief Walker, a good, well meaning red man, and to him we owed our lives.