One evening after our camp had been made we saw an antelope perhaps a half mile away trotting about attracted by the strange wagon train. Fresh meat was much needed at that time, as a number of people were ill. Of course our vegetables had given out long since, and everyone was growing weary of bacon, ham, beans, rice, dried fruit and biscuits. The poor sick people, it seemed, could not eat at all.

Father got his gun. "I'm going to get that antelope," he said.

Several men laughed. "I'd like to see you get close enough to hit it," they jeered.

Father did not answer, but called Blucher the big stallion. Leading the horse, he walked slowly toward the animal, which, inquisitive as the little creatures are, was much interested in Blucher. Father edged the horse closer and closer across the half circle of level land, keeping it between himself and the antelope, which circled about ever coming nearer in its investigations. Finally, thinking the distance about fifty yards, he fired. The horse jumped wildly and I wondered why Father had not taken Derby who would have stood still. When Father stepped off the distance as he went to the antelope, he found that in the clear air he could not judge distance at all. He had shot one hundred and fifty yards, a remarkable shot for that day of the muzzle-loading rifle.

Father was a wonderful marksman. It was said he never missed. Before we had left Iowa he had long been barred from shooting matches, because he never missed the marks and always carried away the prizes.

When he brought the antelope into camp, he found a group to meet him, many admiring his skill and talking of the shot he had made; others anxious for a piece of the meat.

I heard a man say, "Mr. Vanderburgh, I'm ashamed to ask for it, but my mother is so sick. We haven't a thing she can eat. Couldn't I get just a little piece for her?"

Another said, "My wife hasn't been able to eat anything for days. I'm afraid we'll never get her across if I can't get something she can eat." And so it went. Among so many people, numbers were finding the trip too hard. Father kept enough of the meat to give us each a taste, and every other bite went to sick people. Grateful people they were, too, for that little change helped to put many of them on their feet again.

For days we traveled in sight of two great rocks across the Platte. Table Rock, we called one, and Court House Rock, the other. Great piles of stone they were, like huge castles. It seemed we would never pass them.

We older children thought it very funny to watch little Darius try to carry out a self-imposed task. Scarcely would our wagons stop in the evenings before he would be out gathering fuel for Aunt Emmy, as we called Mrs. Joe Acker, though she wasn't really our aunt. Bits of wood, buffalo chips, anything he thought would burn, were carried to her. She always accepted the gifts graciously and he didn't know that she burned only the wood. Little wood was left long in that treeless country, though we occasionally picked up an empty box or scrap of board. Here and there beside the road were broken or discarded wagons. Broken wheels or tongues were sometimes seen. It was a good outfit that stood up on the whole of that long trail.

One day we saw a wagon we had seen before leaving Iowa. It seemed in good condition but stood forlornly alone, dingy and gray. Its smartly painted sign still proclaimed, "Pike's Peak or Bust," but beneath the sign was now scrawled another, "Busted, by Jingo!" We wondered much what fate had met the party, but Father thought that very likely the wagon had been used to carry extra provisions and had been discarded when empty.