We met Bennett and Arcane’s teamsters, and as we expected they were already out of grub and no way to get anymore.  When the party killed an ox they had humbly begged for some of the poorest parts, and thus far were alive.  They came to us and very pitifully told us they were entirely out, and although an ox had been killed that day they had not been able to get a mouthful.  We divided up our meat and gave them some although we did not know how long it would be before we would ourselves be in the same situation.

Thus far we had not seen anything to shoot, big or little although we kept a sharp lookout.

The whole camp was silent, and all seemed to realize their situation.  Before them was a level plain which had the appearance of being so broad as to take five or six days to cross.  Judging by the look from the top of the mountain as we came over, there was little to hope for in the way of water.  We thought it over very seriously.  All the water we could carry would be our canteens full, perhaps two drinks apiece and the poor meat had so little nourishment that we were weak and unable to endure what we once could.

We were alone, Rogers and I, in interest at any rate, even if there were other men about.  For the time it really seemed as if there was very little hope for us and I have often repeated the following lines as very closely describing my own feelings at that time.

    Oh hands, whose loving, gentle grasp I loosed. 
  When first this weary journey was begun. 
    If I could feel your touch as once I could. 
  How gladly would I wish my work undone.

  Harriet Keynon.

During the evening, I had a talk with Capt.  Asa Haines, in which he said he left a good home in Illinois, where he had everything he could wish to eat, and every necessary comfort, and even some to spare, and now he felt so nearly worn out that he had many doubts whether he could live to reach the mountains, on the other side.  He was so deeply impressed that he made me promise to let his wife and family know how I found him and how he died, for he felt sure he would never see the California mines.  I said I might not get through myself, but he thought we were so young and strong that we would struggle through.  He said if he could only be home once more he would be content to stay.  This was the general tenor of the conversation.  There was no mirth, no jokes, and every one seemed to feel that he was very near the end of his life, and such a death as stood before them, choking, starving in a desert was the most dreary outlook I ever saw.

This camp of trouble, of forlorn hope, on the edge of a desert stretching out before us like a small sea, with no hope for relief except at the end of a struggle which seemed almost hopeless, is more than any pen can paint, or at all describe.  The writer had tried it often.  Picture to yourself, dear reader the situation and let your own imagination do the rest.  It can never come up to the reality.