Morning, noon
`` One more trip to the ha ` nts of the fur-bearin ' and it 's good-by to the mountain trails and the river courses fur me , '' he said , as he rose and stalked unsteadily away , and -- I never saw him again . At daybreak the next morning we were off for Santa Fé . Our wagons , loaded with their precious burdens , moved forward six abreast along the old sun-flower bordered trail . Morning , noon , and evening , pitching camp and breaking camp , yoking oxen and harnessing mules , keeping night vigil by shifts , hunting buffalo , killing rattlesnakes , watching for signs of hostile Indians , meeting incoming trains , or solitary trappers , at long intervals , breathing the sweet air of the prairies , and gathering rugged strength from sleep on the wholesome earth -- these things , with the jolliest of fellowship and perfect discipline of our captain , Jondo , made this hard , free life of the plains a fascinating one . We were unshaven and brown as Indians . We lost every ounce of fat , but we were steel-sinewed , and fear , that wearing element that disintegrates the soul , dropped away from us early on the trail . But when the full moon came sweeping up the sky , and all the prairie shadows lay flat to earth under its surge of clear light , in the stillness of the great lonely land , then the battle with home-sickness was not the least of the plains ' perils .