By Chimney Rock (above),
the dust, driven by the everlasting wind of the plains, cut into your
flesh; the cattle labored hard on the sandy trail. Water holes and
wells yielded only a turbid liquid the color of lye, and the ground
about them was whitened as with frost. The cliffs assumed all manner of
shapes; sometimes like ancient castles, sometimes like giant, man-made
walls, and in the clear air seemed to overhang the trail.
The mean streak hidden in many a man came out when the teams were put to Mitchell's Pass through Scotts Bluff (below). Here, grass and water were alike poor, and at the western extremity of the Pass the country grew barren and dull.
