Mother,
my sister Alta, four years old, and I started. Uncle Whitney
borrowed a team and democrat wagon and drove us to Waterloo where we
took the train. It was freezing day in the latter part of November
1881. We left Auntie Whitney crying and wringing her hands, saying
we that we'd freeze to death, be murdered by the Indians, and a lot
more that the noise of the wagon drowned out.
The
road had become very muddy and froze. The deep ruts threw the wagon
around till we were seasick. It was so rough that a heavy trunk was
thrown repeatedly up on the edge of the eight inch wagon box.
