Our last camp on the mountain trail was a very comfortable one. We found water and grazing here, and a camp wagon from New Mexico, a man and his wife and daughter. From New Mexico, but where to they apparently didn’t know; they were just “on the way.”

We had reached Denver Monday morning, half a day before we expected, and ahead of schedule, and as Brad did not have to leave for home before the twenty-eighth, and it was only the twenty-fifth, he said he would stay over and clean up with us, and start home the next day. We got into town about ten o’clock, put our outfit up at Craig’s Sales Stable, and went around the corner to the New Western Hotel. We cleaned up first, put on our “store clothes,” and then got our mail.

I dropped into E. H. Rollins & Sons’ banking house for some currency, and saw Mr. Reynolds. He started to talk business to me and I thought he was speaking a different language. I didn’t seem to understand much of what he was talking about, so got away as soon as I could. Didn’t feel just right in an office anyway, although he was very kind and offered to do anything for me I wished, but try as hard as I might I couldn’t think of anything I wanted.

Going back to the hotel I seemed to keep repeating to myself, “Funny you don’t want a thing; not even a cigar.” (I hadn’t been able to smoke coming over the mountains on account of the altitude.) Finally passing a cigar store I stopped and thought I would try a cigar anyway, and see if that wasn’t what I wanted, and as I lighted it and stepped out on the street, I knew it was. This also reminded me of the fact that we were on level ground. The mountains had been passed.

Chapter XIII—The Plains of Colorado

Tuesday, July 26. Denver did not hold many attractions for us, so we decided not to stay here very long, perhaps a couple of days. After we had seen Mr. Bradley off for home and laid in a supply of groceries and feed, I examined the horses carefully to see if they were doing as well as they should, and was surprised to find that Kate was so lame she could hardly walk. I had intended to sell Cyclone here, as we could get along very well with three horses, now that Mr. Bradley had left and there were only three of us. Besides, Pete was planning to leave us when we got to North Platte.

Finding Kate helpless, I concluded to get a fresh horse, and, not wishing to part with any of my old standbys, I traded Cyclone even up for a dun mare to go with Bess. This mare we called Sally. Craig, the man I traded with, said he would rest Cyclone up and get him in good shape and use him for his buggy horse. I asked him if he did not want to hitch him up and try him, but he was an old horse trader and said he guessed not; if we had driven him across Colorado he was satisfied he was broke and gentle enough for his use. I could see the boys’ eyes snap and was afraid they might laugh outright, but they managed to keep sober. I kept a string on my trade, however, by saying that I would try the mare by driving her out of town, and if she didn’t suit me I would come back for Cyclone. This being settled, I looked the horses over again and concluded that they would be better out on the road than in a barn. They were not eating well and the flies in the barn worried them, so I told the boys we would pull out right away.

Hitching up Bess and our new mare Sally, Pete saddled up Dixie and, leading Kate, we started out. Kate was so lame she could hardly walk and Craig said, “You better leave that mare behind; I will give you twenty-five dollars for her and take a chance on curing her.” I was tempted to accept his offer as she seemed hopelessly lame, but somehow I couldn’t bear to leave her behind so long as she could follow, and as I remembered how we had given her up once before, and she had followed us all day crying, I didn’t have the heart to sell her; so I drove out of the yard and she hobbled after us.

Safely out of the yard, Norman rolled over in the wagon and looking around to see what had happened to him I found he was convulsed with laughter.

“What is the matter?” I said. “Sit up and tell me quick.”

And between breaths he was able to say in a rather disjointed manner, “He’s going to feed and rest Cyclone up and drive him to a buggy. My! but I would give a dollar to be there when he does it. The first auto will put him through a street car and over a telephone pole. Say, Mister, how could you do it?” And he was off again in another convulsion.

By this time Pete had ridden Dixie alongside and with a smile asked, “What sort of a buggy horse do you suppose Craig will have when he gets Cyclone rested up?”

I could not help but join in the laugh and wished Brad were there to join in also.

We really were in no position to crow over the trade until we knew the sort of horse we had. Just then we passed a man driving a team and he stopped and said, “Did you get that mare of Craig?” On being told that we had, he said, “Well, she is O.K. I know the mare and the man who owned her first, and she is a good honest mare and has no bad tricks.” And he was right. We found her a satisfactory addition to our motive power and just as safe and as good a puller as any we had, but she was slow and kept me busy at times to keep her up to Bess.

Well, we were on the road again, with only a day’s stop at Denver, and, after getting over our hilarity and finding we had a good horse, we began to feel a bit lonesome. Brad had always been the life of the party and would have enjoyed our horse trade immensely, but in lieu of being able to talk it over, Norman was already planning to write him all about it.

We soon had another horse trade under way, however, which was quite a ludicrous affair. It came about in this way. We were headed for Hudson and that night we camped near the South Platte River, six miles from Denver, at the State Fish Hatchery. It was late when we pulled in there and when Norman, who was to be the cook, came to look for his stove he couldn’t find it. Some one had stolen it out of the wagon at Denver.

While the boys were getting supper under difficulties, I made the acquaintance of two urchins and, as they lived near and had a woodpile, I got them to bring us some wood. Later I met their father and we got to talking horse. He said he had a cowpony that he had bought of a “puncher” who was through there with a bunch of cattle, and he was trying to make a farm horse of him. He had only a little patch of land and light work, so I thought it would be a good place for Kate and suggested he trade me the saddle pony for her. Incidentally he could pay me twenty-five dollars “to boot.” We finally compromised on fifteen dollars and were to look the animals over in daylight before making the transfer.

Next morning, just as I was hitching up, he came over and said he would take the mare, and asked me if the pony suited me. He told me he had him fairly well broken to drive and thought I would have no trouble working him if necessary, but that he had been a saddle pony so long he did not take to harness willingly. “We won’t worry about that,” I said, “I just want him for the boys to ride and I want Kate to have good care. I’ll hitch him up and make him work if I need him. First, however, I’ll have Pete go over and ride him.” So calling Pete, I said, “Get your saddle and bridle and go over and catch that pony and ride him over here. If you like him, we will trade.”

The man and I waited for some time for him to come back. Finally when he did come he was on foot, and said he couldn’t catch the pony. So we all went over and the man caught him. I thought the pony was a bit “wild eyed,” but said nothing. It took two of us to put the saddle and bridle on and then, just as Pete started to get on, I had a “hunch” and took the bridle away from him and said, “I’ll ride him myself first.” I threw the bridle over his head and put my foot in the stirrup, but something I had learned years before prevented me from getting on. I looked that pony in the face again and was sure I was right, but just to prove it I put my foot in the stirrup again, took hold of the pommel of the saddle, then put my weight on his back. That was enough. He broke loose and did a stunt of high and lofty bucking that would do credit to any bronco I had ever busted, with myself the centre of operations, and when I could take my eyes off of him long enough to look about I could see that both the boys were laughing, and when the pony finally started jumping stiff-legged toward his owner, with his head down and bawling, they rolled over in the grass and just kicked. The man ran for his life and got behind a tree; the pony, running into a barbed wire fence, stopped, and the circus was over.

Picking up my hat that had come off in my jumping about to keep out of the pony’s way, I said, “If you will take off that saddle and bridle we will be going.” And looking back as we drove away we saw the man standing where we had left him, still looking at the pony. He had never ridden a horse in his life probably and was as surprised as any one at his antics.

We drove to Barr Lake and about four miles beyond for lunch. The country was flat, the roads sandy, and we were tangled up a bit as to direction, but finally arrived at Hudson about 6:30 P. M., and putting the horses in the livery barn went to the hotel. It looked very much like rain and here I thought we would rest a while.

The next morning, Thursday, the twenty-eighth, we remained in Hudson. Norman had a stove made so he could do better work in the cooking line. It was not much of a stove as stoves go, but for our purpose it was fine. It was a flat piece of sheet iron with holes punched in it, attached to six legs.

I made some inquiry regarding the roads and found they were quite sandy along the railroad, but that if we were not afraid to cross the open range we would have better traveling. The open range didn’t scare us any. We had no fear of getting lost and decided at once to go over the range to Fort Morgan. Our instructions were to go directly east to the “D” ranch and then northeast to Fort Morgan, getting directions from the “D” ranch. We got to Fort Morgan O. K., but without any further directions.

Starting at 1 P. M. we were soon out on the range, driving over a rolling country without a tree in sight, but plenty of good grazing, and passed bunches of cattle now and then. Pete saw a badger he wanted to shoot and, as he sat on the seat with me, he reached back for a rifle, picked up a 22-calibre with short cartridges in it, and instead of shooting the badger, shot Bess in the neck.

Pete was more surprised than Bess was. He seemed unable to move afterward. Bess merely looked around and seemed to think a horse fly had stung her. She still carries the bullet in her neck and seems none the worse for it, but if Pete had picked up the other gun and the same thing had happened, we would have lost a horse right there. Pete learned something about guns right then that may be of value to him.

Shortly after this it began to rain, and it certainly was needed. We drove on through the rain until we got near a ranch house where we could get water. Here they had a windmill and were trying dry farming. The rancher said it was dry all right and this was the first rain in months.

The next morning it was still threatening rain when I got up, and a couple of range horses were trying to get into the wagon. I drove them away, but as it was wet and soggy I let the boys sleep, so that it was eight-thirty before we started that morning. We had fortunately picked up some dry wood in town the day before, which we kept in the wagon, and so had no trouble in making a fire.

Starting off we found a fairly good trail which we could have used to advantage, except for our wide-tread wagon and wide tires. We are just beginning to find almost all the vehicles in this part of the country are standard tread, and so plan to have our wagon cut down at the first opportunity. We made about twelve miles by noon and camped on the open range for lunch.

Most of the country we had just driven through was being fenced, but like most newly settled communities in the West, the first settlers seemed to have become discouraged or dried out, and had left. We found hardly any one on the claims. We saw a good many cattle and the buffalo grass was still fairly good grazing, and the rain of last night will help. It was so cloudy and cool that we wore our coats or sweaters all the morning. We saw plenty of dogs and hawks, but no game.

We planned to drive to Wiggins this afternoon, which we made a guess should be fifteen miles away, but did not get more than nine miles before the threatening weather made us decide on an early camp to get ready for a rain we were sure was coming. We had been driving across country with no particular road and at a deserted ranch, where we could get water, we camped. We tied down our wagon top and used our wagon sheet for a lean-to kitchen, and got supper while the rain, which had begun while we were getting ready, came down in torrents. It rained nearly all night, but the ground was so dry it soaked up the water like a sponge.

We had no more than unhitched the team when two kittens, veritable skeletons, came into camp from the ranch house, and we were glad to take them in out of the wet and feed them. Camp seemed more cheerful with those kittens about. How they had managed to live we couldn’t tell, but decided to take them along with us and leave them at the first house.

The next morning, Saturday, the thirtieth, while hitching up the horses, a man came along on a pony, and riding up to our wagon began to talk about the rain, and what a blessing it was to the country, etc. He had just got fairly launched on the subject when he saw the kittens, and about that time they “sensed him,” and he got off his pony and said, “Well, I didn’t forget you, but I was afraid you might be dead.” It seems he was the owner of the claim we were on, and these were his kittens. He had gone to town to get some work and was coming out to see how things were, and had brought a bottle of milk in his pocket for the kittens, in case they were still there and able to drink it.

We visited with him for a while and then pulled out for Corona, or Wiggins P. O., on the railroad, where we bought some oats for the horses and oatmeal for ourselves, and then went on and made camp alongside the railroad, about fifteen miles from Fort Morgan. Here Kate kicked Dixie on the left hind leg, at the stifle-joint, cutting quite a gash with the cork on her shoe, so that I sewed it up. Dixie was so lame that we had to lead her. This delayed us so that we did not get into Fort Morgan until 6:30 P. M. We ate our supper at a restaurant and then drove out about a mile and camped.

Fort Morgan is quite a prosperous little town of twenty-five hundred population, and our camp that night was within sight and sound of the lights and noises of a lively country town, made by the usual Saturday night crowd. We began to feel cramped again. To camp between fences near a railroad and a town gave me the feeling I imagine one must have on moving from a big country home into a stuffy city flat.

Sunday, July 31. The rain we had two days ago was quite general over this part of the country and, now that it is over, the weather is hot and muggy. The roads are also sticky, and with a lame horse we do not make very good progress. To begin with, we found after going about three miles that we had forgotten our stove, so Pete rode Kate back after it. Kate is picking up fast, but we had not intended working her yet; still she deserved the six-mile extra ride for kicking Dixie. After recovering our stove, we drove about a mile beyond Brush, which was ten miles from Fort Morgan, for lunch, and then drove on to Snyder, about five miles farther, on the South Platte River, and made camp about 3 P. M. in a grove of cottonwood trees and turned the horses loose to graze while we made a very comfortable camp.

The town of Snyder (six houses) was just across a long bridge on the other side of the river and, as the water was not very good, we took pails and went over and got a good supply from the town pump; also purchased some eggs. The boys took a bath in the river while I laundried the clothes. This was a specially good camping place as we had plenty of wood and water, besides grass for the horses, and they enjoyed the afternoon rest. We started our oatmeal and prunes cooking in the fireless cooker as usual, and then turned in.

The next day we continued on down the valley through Hill Rose and on toward Sterling. Ranchers looked prosperous, although the season had been dry. Wheat and oats seemed to be the biggest part of the crop, but beets were raised quite extensively, and some alfalfa, but it looked poor.

Toward evening we were stopped by a woman who said her mare was cast in a ditch and, as her husband was away, she and the children had been trying for hours to get her up, but couldn’t,--and would we be good enough to take one of our horses and pull her out? We stopped, of course, and Norman Bradley and I walked over and had no difficulty in rolling the animal over; and the mare ran off, followed by her colt, none the worse for her experience.

When we got back to the wagon it was 6:30 P. M., so we decided to camp right there. After we had our supper and were cleaning up by lantern light, the woman’s husband, who had evidently just got home, came over to thank us for getting his mare up, and by way of further showing his appreciation, offered to give us a three-legged dog. We did want a dog, but wanted a whole one, so declined his generous offer with thanks. Just as we turned in, it began to rain again. The drought seems to be broken and, while the rain does not improve the roads, it is such a blessing to the country we are pleased also.

After getting already to start the next morning, we dressed up, that is, we got out our “store clothes,” and our good shoes, and made ourselves as presentable as possible, for we had heard that Sterling was quite a good-sized town. We planned to go to the hotel for dinner and stay and see the sights, as we had heard they had a street fair or circus. We were disappointed in the town and the circus didn’t interest us, but we had dinner at the hotel, which was the best in town, and even the dinner disappointed us. We could get up a much better one ourselves.

The only satisfaction we got out of the hotel was permission to go into the dining-room without our coats. We remembered our last experience at Delta, Colorado, just at the western end of the State, where the landlady refused to let us into the hotel, and concluded clothes did have something to do with our treatment here to-day.

Going over to the barn where we had left our horses, I found a rancher with his wagon broken down, and he said he was twenty miles from home; so I just got out our box of tools, bolts, washers, etc., and fixed him up in short order. He wanted to pay me for the job, but I told him I wasn’t a blacksmith; I was just a farmer, and being a farmer himself, he knew we were not allowed by law to collect money for work of that kind. He wasn’t long in seeing the point and, after telling me he was convinced I had never belonged to any union and probably never would, invited me to go home with him and stay a few days and rest up my team. Being in a hurry, I had to decline.

I am just beginning to realize that I am never so much in a hurry as when I am on a vacation. I always plan just a little more than can be done during vacation time, and then usually do it all, which necessitates one grand rush. Some time I am going to do as everybody else does, and take it easy during my vacation and not be in any hurry. Then I will not only have just as much fun, but come back to work all rested up.

When we left Sterling at 4 P. M. the horses seemed in good spirits, but the next morning Bess seemed tired out and Dixie seemed to have lost her appetite. We were still leading Dixie on account of her lameness, also Kate, and were driving Sally and Bess. We drove through Iliff and eight miles to Proctor, then three miles toward Crook, when we stopped for lunch.

It had been a fine cool morning with a nice breeze. The valley had flattened out so that we could see for miles on each side. The high rolling land in the distance on either side looked very much like a desert and, while not a desert exactly, it really was of little value. We heard that a new irrigation ditch was to be put through here from the South Platte, by Canfield & Company, that would irrigate ten thousand acres. Just the flood waters were to be used, taken out between October and April, and a charge of thirty dollars per acre was to be made, plus interest. I presume this water was to be stored in a reservoir. Practically all the land on which any good crops are raised between here and Denver we found was irrigated. The balance, on account of the dry season, did not raise much of anything.

In the afternoon we drove through Crook and camped about four miles east of there and about three miles west of Red Lion. Just before making camp we met a party of horse traders who tried to work off something on us in exchange for Sally, but as she was about the only workable horse we had left, we knew better than to let her go, and after an amusing half-hour we let them go without making any trade. Bess seemed about “all in,” for the first time, and Dixie was not much better, although not so lame.

The next morning, Thursday, August 4, Bess seemed so weak that we put her behind with Dixie, and drove Sally and Kate, the first time Kate had been in harness for a month. We drove by Red Lion, which we found to be a sign on the railroad track, and on to Sedgwick, about thirteen miles. Here Bess hung back so much that after lunch, this side of Sedgwick, we put her in the harness again and to lighten the load the boys rode Kate and Dixie, and I put the stay chain back on Sally, so she pulled practically all the load. We then got along very well and by 4:30 P. M. drove to Ovid, eight miles, and camped on Lodge Pole Creek, making twenty-one miles, which we thought was doing wonders with a tired lot of horses. We had a very good camp here on Lodge Pole Creek, but it rained hard all night and the next morning.

We should have stayed there, as the roads were frightfully muddy, but as we were only about seven and a half miles from Julesburg, we concluded the sooner we got there the better. About 11:30 A. M., during a lull in the storm, I hitched up and we started, thinking the horses would be better traveling in the direction of a barn, than standing there shivering in the cold rain. Sally, with the stay chain shortened up, pulled the wagon into Julesburg by 2:15 P. M., the boys riding inside, as it rained all the time, and Kate and Dixie walking behind. Reaching town we found a good barn, and, after taking care of the horses, we repaired to a restaurant for lunch.

In the afternoon I had the blacksmith pull the shoes off of Kate and Bess so they could rest up their feet while they were resting themselves. This blacksmith, by the way, was quite a wonder in his line and, when I learned of his ability, I got him to promise to cut my wagon down the next day, which he did. He took the axles down (they were steel), took four inches out of the middle of each, welded them together again, and no one would know they had ever been touched. He cut the wooden parts down, changed the brake, and we were ready to start with a standard tread wagon, which we did the following Sunday afternoon, after two days’ stop, which rested the horses, and the change in the tread made it very much easier pulling.

Julesburg was not so large or so tough a town as I had expected to find. It had quite a bad reputation some years ago, but, as with all our frontier towns, time has remedied that.

Leaving Julesburg Sunday afternoon, the roads were not very good as it had been raining more or less for several days. The wagon, however, ran so much easier that we were soon five miles from town on the south side of the river, and finding a good place to camp, with feed and water (water in this country usually means an irrigation ditch), we decided to go no farther. It was Sunday and we should not have started except we wanted to get out of town. Two days in Julesburg made us anxious to leave, so at this first good camp site we stopped.

Here we did some laundry work, took a bath, and cleaned up generally. Talking with the farmers we find many who want to sell out. They have had a very bad year. Even the irrigation or wet farmers seem to be in bad shape, as water failed, dams went out, etc. I told them they were no worse off than other people we had interviewed in the West and, if they moved out, I would advise their going east, as it certainly was dry west of here, where we had been, and everybody was complaining. I think this sort of talk was good for them. It didn’t help except in their minds. People are always more apt to feel better if they know other people are worse off.

Moving on the next morning we passed Big Spring and about 4 P. M. reached Brule. We were now, Monday, August 8, in Nebraska, and had left Colorado, through which we had been traveling since the evening of July 2. We had passed over all kinds of country in this State, from the desert, over the Rocky Mountains, to the plains, and had navigated the prairie schooner over all kinds of roads, so that now we felt we were over the worst end of the trip from the point of traveling, but so far as scenery was concerned, and good camping places, we didn’t expect much from here on.

We had given up our kerosene stove at Denver and from here on wood for fires was scarce. In fact, it had been ever since we left the stove behind, and we were obliged to pick up wood along the road. Next time we will know better than to part with a good stove, but I cannot say that we missed any meals because we did not have it.

Chapter XIV—Our Party Grows Smaller

Before getting to Brule we had crossed over to the north side of the river, and arriving in town and a storm coming up, we drove into a barn and went to the hotel for supper. We had come just fifteen miles and had let the horses walk practically all the way. The storm soon blew over, but we did not go on, preferring to let the roads dry up some, so slept in the wagon in the barn.

Here we met a man by the name of Hoover, who was going to Hershey, near North Platte. He was hauling household goods. He had been working for some contractors on an irrigation job and was going home. Finding the roads so muddy he wanted to unload his big stove and send it on by freight, but we made a little fun of his doing so because he had a fresh strong team, and I told him, as he was going our way, if he got stuck we would pull him out. This allusion to his team needing any help rather fussed him, and he said he guessed if we were going on in the mud he could.

He had a wide-tired wagon also, which is about the worst thing to handle in the mud, outside of an auto without chains, so we had our troubles together. While his team was fresh and very good walkers we travelled together and managed to keep up with him, much to his surprise, without pushing our team very much. Starting out, we drove down the valley on the north side of the river, or rather river bed; there is not much water in the river this time of year. What would ordinarily be there is in the irrigating ditches. The day was fine, and outside of an occasional bad spot in the road we made fairly good progress.

At noon we camped about twelve miles from Brule, going to the river to water the horses. Near us was another party of campers; a large family and three poor horses. We had lost track of Hoover. He started ahead of us and evidently didn’t know a good camping place when he saw it, or else decided not to stop at all. Toward evening we overhauled him and we went into camp together.

After getting our camp into shape we invited Hoover to eat with us, which he seemed glad to do, but insisted on paying for his share of the grub. He seemed quite interested in our fireless cooker and camp outfit, but couldn’t understand why he had not left us behind during the day. I could have told him, but I didn’t. I noticed he did not have a brake on his wagon, so that going down hill he had to go slow, while I let our team trot down, holding the wagon with the brake. In this way I made up all I lost on the level and up grades, and didn’t worry the horses either.

The next morning, Wednesday, August 10, we drove on through Paxton and Sutherland, and camped about ten miles from North Platte. We had been making from twenty to twenty-five miles a day. When we reached Sutherland Mr. Hoover left us, following a different road, eight miles to his farm near Hershey. When we made camp, which was by the side of an irrigation ditch as usual, the wind blew so hard we had to take the cover off the wagon to keep it from being blown over.

As soon as the blow was over, the boys got supper while I measured out the oats and fed the horses. As usual, they crowded about the wagon, but Bess laid down before I got her nosebag ready, which was so unusual that I remarked to the boys that she must have a touch of colic. She would not eat and I was quite worried about her, but we had supper and the boys turned in, leaving me sitting on the wagon tongue with the lantern between my feet watching Bess. I had put a blanket on her to keep her warm, as the night was chilly.

We had nothing in our commissary that would relieve colic, so picking up the lantern I started down the road to a farm house I had seen in the distance, when we were making camp. It was a long way to the house, or it seemed so in the dark, and when I got there I couldn’t make out whether any one was at home or not; at least I could not wake up any one but the dog, so came back to camp.

My impression was that we were going to lose a horse. Colic is not always fatal, but I felt that not having anything to give her to relieve the condition, the chances were she might die.

As I came near enough to the wagon to see it, the white canvas top made it look twice as large as in the daylight, and Bess was standing up between me and the wagon, throwing a shadow on the canvas that startled me. She was eating grass and was apparently much better.

While walking about and adjusting her blanket I was astonished to find a little colt. It was dead, but, as I buried it, I could not help smiling at my diagnosis of the case, and wondering what the boys would say in the morning when I told them. Just then Norman called out from the wagon, “What are you doing over there anyway?”

Not thinking what I was saying, I replied, “Burying Bess’s colic.”

The next morning, Thursday, August 11, we drove slowly into North Platte, and put our horses in a barn and went to a hotel to clean up. Pete was to leave us and go home on the train, so we did some rapid work in getting everything arranged. The two Normans had ridden horseback across Colorado, about five hundred miles, had done the cooking and packing since leaving Denver, and now that one was leaving, our party was to be cut down to two, Norman Bradley and myself. I am not sure but we were wishing we might board the train also with Pete, but no one mentioned it, and as the train pulled out we felt rather lonesome. We two walked back up town and, while Norman was buying some groceries, I stopped in at the bank to get a check cashed.

The last time I had been in North Platte was twenty years ago, when traveling for N. W. Harris & Co., buying bonds. At that time I had met a young man by the name of McNamara who was working in one of the banks here, and as I had to spend Sunday in town, he came around to the hotel and invited me to go and call on a young lady with him.

I may not get this story right as to details, but the facts I have not forgotten, and when I found that the president of the bank in which I went to get my check cashed was Mr. McNamara, I was immediately reminded of the Sunday, many years ago, when this same Mr. McNamara, then quite a young man, and I had gone to call on a young lady by the name of Cody. He had evidently called there many times before, but at this time there was another young man calling also, who had ridden up on a bronco, and when this young man left, wishing to make the right sort of impression on Miss Cody, who by the way was a daughter of Wm. Cody, or “Buffalo Bill,” he allowed his horse to rear up and fall over on him, breaking his leg. Of course, he made an impression right there, and was taken into the house and cared for, and we left. I had often wondered since how it came out, viz., which had made the more favorable impression, and now that I had met Mr. McNamara again I said, “Well, whom did Miss Cody marry?” And he replied laughingly, “The fellow who broke his leg, of course; it always ends that way.” So after many years my mind was finally set at rest regarding a matter into which I had often thought to inquire.

I had a short visit with Mr. McNamara and the folks in the bank, and then gave up the afternoon to getting things ready to start in the morning.

The next morning we left town at 10 A. M., crossed to the south side of the river and drove until 1 P. M. The roads were good and the country looked better on this side of the valley; the hills were close to us on the south, and to the north the valley was very wide, as the north fork of the Platte comes down and joins the south fork just below here. Shortly after noon we met a party moving into northern Nebraska. They had come up from Kansas. They had twelve horses and two wagons, and had just camped in a schoolhouse yard.

The odd thing about this country was that there were hardly any fences; each schoolhouse, however, stood in the middle of an acre of ground, with a fence all around, which made a good place to camp. There was usually a pump, a wood shed, and grass. What more could a party want? They could turn their horses loose to graze and be happy, especially as it was vacation time, and no scholars or teacher to interfere.

This party told us they had been having quite a time with their horses and colts, as on this main road they had met so many autos, and inquired if we had had much trouble that way. Needless to say we didn’t and hadn’t. Our animals were all broken to everything, including going without eating when necessary. The only special comment these folks had to make regarding our trip, when we told them how far we had come, was that our horses didn’t look it.

We were tempted to stop and camp with them, but as it was early we concluded not to lose half a day, and so went on. A shower that blew up shortly after we left came near soaking us before we could get the sheet down. It rained so much that it made the roads muddy, and by night we had made only eighteen miles.

We had reached the National Soldiers’ Cemetery, and on inquiring if there was any objection to our camping there, were made to feel at home by Mr. Ingle, the superintendent. He showed us a good place to camp, offered to let us cook on his stove if we wanted to, and suggested we put our horses in his pasture. We did not need to use his stove as we had dry wood, but had to hurry to get our supper and make things tight for the night, as it soon began to rain again and kept it up all night. I guess we were tired, because I remember we turned in early, and when I woke the next morning I found the lantern still burning. I had gone to sleep so quickly that I forgot to blow it out, and slept soundly all night with it lighted and hanging right over my head.

The next day, August thirteenth, was fine and clear, and we decided not to start on until the roads had dried up some, and so visited with Mr. Ingle for a few hours. He showed us the cemetery where all the old soldiers who were killed in the Indian fights were buried, and told us about this country when he first came through here as a young man in the army. Then they were having more or less trouble with the Indians. Now the Indians are all gone and he is an old man, looking after the graves of those who died or were killed at that time. There is just one Indian buried here, Spotted Horse, a staunch friend of the whites.

Norman was quite interested in the process of moving the bodies of some of the soldiers that had been placed in the wrong locations, and busied himself helping the men move them while Mr. Ingle talked to me about the days when this country still belonged to the Indians.

He had a desk in his office, made of cedar. It had been made by hand many years ago out of cedar cut from the hill back of the cemetery. Sawed out by hand and fastened with wooden pins, it was nevertheless a fine piece of furniture. His office was full of Government records of soldiers and correspondence, and would be a good place for any one to pick up old army tales, which could be written up under the trees beside the graves, with no one to disturb.

This cemetery, miles away from any town, surrounded by a brick wall and filled with trees shading every corner, seemed a very appropriate place for those old Indian fighters to rest, and we were glad we had had the opportunity of seeing it, and talking with the superintendent, who knew so much about the men who were buried there.

Mr. Ingle wanted us to spend Sunday with him and, if time had permitted, we should have liked to do so, but with our usual haste we left at twelve o’clock, after selling our old saddle to one of his men for seven dollars. We got our pay by cashing a check from Mr. Ingle, less seven dollars, and as it was a Government pension check we took no risk. As he wanted a dollar more I cashed his personal check on the First National Bank of North Platte. I just mention this to illustrate how checks are used as currency in this country and no questions asked. Later I stopped at a country store and offered ten dollars in payment for some small article and was told they could not change it unless I would take small checks. They had cashed so many they were out of currency. We managed to scrape up the change and went on.

Later, passing through a small town, I went into the railroad station to send a telegram, for which the charges were sixty cents, and handed the ticket agent the ten dollars. He said he would have to go over town and get it changed if I did not have anything smaller. Just then I thought of the check for one dollar that Mr. Ingle had given me, and so I said, “I have a check for one dollar, if that will go.” He snapped me up with “Why didn’t you say so before?” and handed out forty cents, waiting until I had produced the check and endorsed it, when he put it in the cash drawer, hardly looking at it. I left, wondering how easy it might be to put bogus checks through, if even the railroad company took them that easy. Well, we didn’t have to try to pass any bogus checks, but it did seem that the people were a bit careless.

Leaving the cemetery we drove to Brady Island, where we crossed to the north side of the river on a bridge that seemed a mile long, but in only one small channel was there any water running. We drove on a few miles over sandy roads and then camped, about eleven miles from Gothenburg. The next morning, we drove through Gothenburg, not expecting to go far, but looking for a good camping place, which we didn’t find. It was a sandy, muddy road to Gothenburg, and then we drove six miles to Willow Island and five more to Cozad, and found no good camp site. Then we thought we might come to a creek about two miles farther on, but after driving three miles and not finding one, we camped alongside of the road, making about twenty-five or twenty-six miles for the day.

We met several prairie schooners to-day. One party of young men, going to Sutherland, stopped us to ask about the roads west and where to cross the river. Just before starting up one of them asked me where we were from, and when I told him California, he seemed speechless for a minute, but finally came to and, as we started up, asked me this question, which I didn’t get a chance to answer--and perhaps he did not expect me to--viz., “Say, stranger, where are you going to, or don’t you know?”

Some way that question seemed to strike me as especially funny, and the more I thought about it the funnier it seemed, until I found myself laughing heartily. Norman didn’t hear his question, and when I told him what I was laughing at, he said, “I suppose that fellow thought we had started out and didn’t know enough to stop,” which remark set me to laughing again and, when I could answer, I said, “Well, I think he was perfectly justified in asking the question. After this if any one asks us where we are from we will tell them from North Platte, and if they ask us where we are going we can tell them Kearney. This will be enough for them to know and will save conversation and may keep us out of the lunatic asylum.”

We had shot a young rabbit, which we had for breakfast, and Norman kept the foot for luck. The next day was foggy and, as we drove along slowly, Norman shot two jack rabbits with the rifle, making a double, so to speak. He saw only one of the jacks, and as he shot it the other jumped into sight and ran away, but didn’t get far when Norman’s second shot knocked him over. This we considered an omen of good luck, as well as marksmanship.

Later we pulled an automobile out of a mud hole with Sally, after having some fun with the men who were trying to start it. I charged them two dollars for doing it, which amused Norman greatly. We divided the money, two silver dollars, and drove on.

Next, Norman spied a quail sitting on a nest close to the road, on a perfectly bare patch of ground. How a quail had the nerve to make a nest in such an exposed place was more than we could tell. Mr. Roosevelt would probably say that we didn’t see it in any such place. To be sure, however, we stopped, walked over to her, and she ran away, which proved that she was alive; and we counted sixteen eggs, which proved that she was setting on them. There wasn’t anything as big as a match to hide it, and the public road was not more than ten feet away.

Without molesting the nest we drove on about half a mile to Buffalo Creek and made our noon camp. Here there was plenty of grass, and we stayed until 4 P. M., and then drove on six miles to Lexington, where we stayed all night. Our horses are doing fairly well, except Sally. She is lazy and needs to be prodded most of the time.

Leaving Lexington at seven-thirty the next morning we had fair roads, with the exception of a mud hole now and then, until we reached Overton. The country is sparsely settled, flat, and uninteresting. At Overton we were stopped by a fellow who said he wanted to buy a horse, and I offered to sell him Sally, and after dickering on the price for a while he said he would give me a saddle horse for her. He brought out the saddle horse which looked like a good one, but I didn’t want to trade horses; I wanted to sell one. Having spent an hour doing a lot of talking to the edification of most of the population in the little town, we drove on without selling Sally. Norman thought we should have traded, just to be doing something, as the going was monotonous and a new horse would give us something new to play with; but I concluded we were better off without a horse we would have to watch, tie up at night, and possibly find harder work disposing of than Sally.

During the afternoon we drove through Simmons and Elm Creek, over some dirt roads that were fine. It looked like rain, but a strong wind came up and we concluded it would blow the rain away, so we were in no hurry to get our supper over. We had camped about eleven miles from Kearney, turned our horses loose, and were just washing up the dishes after supper by lantern light, when a hard thunder shower came up, and by the time we had got things under cover it was raining hard. Before turning in for the night I concluded, as there was a field of alfalfa near by that was not fenced, that I had best get the horses up for fear they might stray into it during the night and get foundered. So putting on my rubber coat and boots, I went out and hunted them up and, with the aid of the lightning flashes, brought them up and tied them to the wagon, and then we turned in and listened to the rain on our canvas cover for about a minute, and the next minute (so it seemed) it was morning, and the rain was over.

As we turned out that morning the country looked as if it had been literally soaked; water stood in the fields, and the dirt roads that were so fine the night before were seas of mud. It was still cloudy, but we concluded, if we delayed starting, the sun would soon come out and dry things up a bit and make it easier going. By eleven o’clock it was still cloudy and we decided not to wait any longer, so hitched up and drove very slowly through the mud the eleven miles to Kearney, where we arrived at about 3 P. M., having stopped near the midway sign for lunch. This sign, supposed to be half-way across the continent, says:

“1,733 miles to Frisco, Boston 1,733.”

We wanted to change the sign so it would read

“1,600 miles to Los Angeles, and 800 miles to Chicago”

but knew no one would see any sense in putting up such a sign. There did seem some sense in putting up this midway sign, although I told Norman it seemed as though we should have come to it sooner. It seemed too far east considering the time we had been on the road,--now three months,--as it appeared as though we had gone more than half way to the Atlantic Ocean. Norman, however, thought if we had been going west instead of east we would have expected to find the sign farther east; at least we would have about the same feelings regarding the distance, hardships of travel, etc., whichever way we were headed.

This reminded me of the old story of the Catholic priest, who was riding a mule into town over a very muddy road, and meeting one of his flock he said: “Good-morning, Pat, is it very bad going this morning?” “Yes, Your Reverence,” said Pat, “and it is just as bad coming.” And I believe they were both right.

Here at Kearney we decided to stay three or four days and rest up the team and see if we could not get away from the rain. We seem to have been traveling in it most of the time since leaving Denver and conclude, if we stay here a few days, it may get ahead of us.

The first thing we did after putting our horses up in the livery barn was to get our mail. Here I found a note from Mr. Adair, Cashier of the City National Bank, asking me to call at once on a very important matter. I concluded he probably had something to sell and had heard somewhere that I was liable to come through his town, so I put the note in my pocket and we went to the Midway Hotel and cleaned up, planning to see Mr. Adair the next day.

The next morning, Thursday, August 18, was still cloudy. After looking around town to see if it had improved much since I was there last, about fifteen years ago, I went around to the livery and looked the horses over and told the proprietor, Mr. E. C. Duncan, I wanted him to sell Sally for me, if he could, during the next day or two. Then recalling the request of Mr. Adair to call and see him on an important matter, I went around to the bank. Here I found them very much exercised about me. They said my father had wired them that I was traveling across country with a wagon, and was due at Kearney about this time,--and would they hunt me up at once, spare no expense, and deliver to me the very important message he had sent me in their care? I asked impatiently for the message, feeling something very unusual had happened. Perhaps some one was sick or dead, and when they told me that they had given the message to one of their men with instructions to phone up and down the line and, as soon as he had located me, to start in his auto with the message and deliver it to me as soon as possible, I was quite worried. Just then a messenger came in and reported that I had not gone through town, and if I wasn’t at any of the hotels, they were going to take the road back toward North Platte and see if they could find me. When informed that I was in the bank he started out to find the man in the auto and get the telegram, and when told it would be an hour before he could be back, I inquired about the trains for Chicago and found one left at twelve o’clock. It was just 10:30. I would have time to get ready to leave town and be back at the bank to get the telegram by the time the messenger could return, if I hurried.

I returned at once to the hotel. Norman was somewhere about town and I knew I could find him before train time, so I packed up my belongings and his, paid the hotel bill, went to see Mr. Duncan, and told him to take care of my horses and wagon, sell Sally, and, if I didn’t ever come back, I would write him what to do with them. Thus I got back to the bank just as the man drove up in his auto and brought in the telegram. I opened it rather hurriedly and, glancing at its contents, heaved a sigh of relief. No one was dead; no one was seriously sick; just a case of important business which needed my attention. I was almost inclined to be provoked because no one was dead. I had fully expected something as bad from all the fuss, and here I was ready to leave in thirty minutes for Chicago just on account of business matters, when I had forgotten I ever had any business.

By this time my momentum had carried me out into the street, and running across Norman I said, “Come on, kid, we are going to catch that twelve o’clock train for Chicago.”

“Why, what’s wrong?” he said, very much surprised.

“Everything and nothing,” I said. “Just come along or we will miss the train. I have got everything fixed and if I knew when I was coming back I would let you stay here until then, but I can’t tell, so you had better come along.”

We caught the train and discussed it afterward and concluded business had no place in an overland trip. Norman left me the next morning at Davis Junction to go home to Rockford, and I came on to Chicago, arriving Friday, August 19.

Whether this is the end of the trip or not, I cannot say, but my impression is that as soon as I can get the business attended to, I will return to Kearney and take up the trail where I left off, and finish it if I have to go alone. In the meantime the horses are having a much needed rest and the prairie schooner is left at anchor without a soul on board. Let us hope her journey is not over.

Chapter XV—Alone in a Prairie Schooner

Kearney is about eight hundred miles from Chicago, and with fair wind and weather I started on the trip alone. No, not exactly alone either. There were five of us, including the dog, as we left Kearney at 3 P. M., Saturday, September 3. Sally had been disposed of, but Kate, Dixie, and Bess were in good condition, having had two weeks’ rest, and I had brought Cress to keep me company and watch the wagon. She did the latter vigilantly, but was a very poor conversationalist. How I managed to get back to Kearney in two weeks, and why I came alone, is really not so important as the fact that I got back, and did start alone; the why-for is merely incidental.

My aim was to get over that eight hundred miles as quickly as possible and not hurt the horses. It looked easy, and as the horses were rested, I thought I could make at least twenty-five miles per day, which ought to land me at the farm at Williams Bay, Wisconsin, October 4 or 5. There were, however, a good many things I had not counted on, which, while they added to the difficulties, did not expedite my journey.

My first stop was at Gibbon, fourteen miles out of Kearney, where I put up at Bill Smith’s livery, got supper at a restaurant, and slept in the wagon. It rained nearly all night, which didn’t make the going any better. Bill Smith was quite a horseman in his day, and had owned, according to his story, Smuggler, Acton, and one or two more famous race horses.

The next morning, Sunday, it was foggy, and I did not pull out till nine-thirty, leaving Smith still talking about race horses. I drove through Shelton and on about five miles farther, where I got my dinner alongside of the road, and, as it had dried up and the sun came out, I hung all the blankets out on the wagon to air, as I found things a bit musty from the two weeks’ lay-over at Kearney, on account of having been put away damp.

Putting everything away again I drove on through Wood River, which is fourteen miles from Gibbon. I should have stopped there as a storm was coming up, but as it was only 4 P. M. and the roads were getting better, I kept on for about two miles, thinking I would find a better camping place and get settled before it rained, but I lost out. Of a sudden it turned loose, and, before I could get the wagon sheet down, it was raining hard and the wind was blowing a gale. I turned into a farm yard and got behind a barn to keep from being turned over, and from this shelter I managed to get the sheet down, don my rubber coat and boots, and help the farmer get his barns closed up. He allowed me to bring my horses in out of the storm.

Here I spent another night sleeping and eating in the wagon during the rain, and had only made sixteen miles, which was not up to my schedule of twenty-five, and muddy roads in sight.

The next day, starting at 10 A. M. in the rain, I managed to reach Grand Island, sixteen miles, by 4:30 P. M., where I stopped for the night, and filled my grub box with eggs, bacon, oatmeal, etc. The country about here looks fine, splendid crops, and land selling at one hundred dollars per acre. The horses have only been walking thus far, but they are walking fast; to-morrow, if possible, we will start to drive in earnest, and I hope to make at least thirty miles, or at least reach Central City, which is twenty-four miles.

Leaving Grand Island the roads were better, and I got to Chapman, twelve miles, by ten-thirty; reached Central City at 2:30 P. M. and kept on to Clark, eleven miles more, making thirty-five miles for the day, which was the farthest we had ever driven in one day. Chapman is a small place, but Central City is a fine little town and looked very clean and prosperous. Clark is just a little hamlet.

The roads to-day were fine, except a mile or two of sand. The country through which I passed was as fine a farming section as I had seen anywhere. Incidentally I saw a few yellow blackbirds among a flock of crow blackbirds, the first I had seen anywhere, except at Delevan Lake, Wisconsin, several years ago.

It is thirty-one miles from my camp here to-night to Columbus and I am going to try to drive that far to-morrow with Kate and Dixie. Bess shows signs of a sore neck and so I decide to take her out of harness for to-morrow and lead her.

Wednesday, September 7, starting at 7:15 A. M., I reached Duncan, twenty-three miles, at twelve-thirty. Starting on again at two-thirty I reached Columbus at 5 P. M., making from thirty to thirty-two miles for the day, which made up for the first three or four days of slow travel. The country all along here looks prosperous. I drove across Crystal Creek between Duncan and the town of Crystal Creek, and over the Loup River, just at the town of Columbus. As I turn in, it looks like rain again. It certainly is not ideal camping weather.

The following morning, after the usual rain during the night, I was late in getting started. Before leaving Columbus a bright thought had come to me. It was to telegraph to an old chum of mine by the name of Lewis, who was living in Omaha, to come out to Fremont and ride into Omaha with me.

After getting this telegram off, I started on toward Fremont. There was a cold north wind blowing, and what few people I met driving had on overcoats, and were wrapped up in lap robes. I got as far as Schuyler for dinner. This was only eighteen miles for the morning, but far enough considering the roads which were bad again, on account of the rain. I tried here to connect up with Lewis over the phone, but couldn’t. Then I drove on to Rodger, eight miles farther, where I managed to talk to Lewis over the phone. He says he will meet me to-morrow night at the Ono Hotel at Fremont, at 6 P. M. It seemed good to hear a familiar voice and I shall be truly glad to have some company. Cress manages to relieve me of any care for the wagon when I leave it temporarily, as she will not allow any one to look into it. It is seventy-five miles from Rodger to Omaha and I have made twenty-six miles to-day, in spite of bad roads, so feel encouraged.

I went over to a hotel for supper and when it was called, the men (about twenty) filed into the dining-room, dropped into the chairs, ate everything in sight, never said a word and, when through, got up and filed out in the same way. It was a queer performance, but the meal was not so bad. It consisted of scrambled eggs, cold meat, fried potatoes, coffee, bread and butter, beans, preserves, and cake, and water in beer bottles--all for twenty-five cents. It wasn’t as clean as my kitchen, but I get tired eating alone, so like to drop into a hotel occasionally and try some one else’s cooking and see different kinds of human nature.

The next day I drove twenty-five miles to Fremont, passing through Ames on the way. Ames was once quite a town. A sugar beet refinery was located here; also large feeding barns for sheep, but the sugar beet refinery, and sheep barns, are out of commission and the people have moved away and the town site is for sale, including all the barns and empty houses. Question: What is a town site and houses worth if there are no people in the town to occupy the houses, or any excuse for getting them to move in? I found one family of women folks who hadn’t money enough to move, as they explained when I stopped to water the horses, so I made a donation and moved on.

From here into Fremont the road was very good, so that I arrived at 4 P. M. I had seen a great many posters on the fences and telegraph poles as I drove along and there seemed to be something familiar about the picture. On closer examination I was surprised to find it was my friend Lewis’ picture. He was running for the State Legislature. Passing a livery stable in town I was hailed by the proprietor who asked me if my name was Harris.

Quite astonished I pulled up and said, “Yes, who are you?”

He laughingly replied, “I’m only the livery man, but I was told by Mr. Lewis to have you put up here and he would be back shortly.”

“Well, I like his nerve,” I said.

“Most people do,” said he.

“I believe you,” I replied, and came down.

Mr. Lewis soon appeared and we had a chance to talk over old times while driving into Omaha the next day, Saturday. Sunday I spent with him and his family. He has a country place of about ten or fifteen acres, and while their house was large enough, I insisted on his sleeping in the wagon with me, much to the disgust, I think, of Mrs. Lewis, who thought I should be glad of a good bed. They have a very interesting family and I enjoyed my Sunday with them very much.

Monday, Lewis offered to go with me across the river and through Council Bluffs to Weston as guide. I had come all the way to Omaha without a guide and without getting lost or off the trail, but I accepted his offer gladly. Much to his disgust and my amusement he got lost in the Bluffs, and we had to make several inquiries regarding the road and did not reach Weston until after dark, and just in time for him to catch a train back to Omaha.

Having “roasted” him considerably for getting lost, I concluded I had had fun enough at his expense to call it even, but he evidently thought differently, for he wrote up my trip for the Omaha World-Herald, including several pictures, and then sent me a copy with the remark, “Now will you be good?”--and I had to admit he had got ahead. If he wasn’t a good guide, he was a good scribe. All over that section of Iowa, where the World-Herald was taken, the farmers came out with a copy of the paper and stopped me and wanted to ask me questions, and look me and the outfit over. I was thankful when I got out of its territory.

The State of Iowa is familiar to the traveling public that travel in trains, and it is considered one of the best farming States in the Union. Admitting the many advantages possessed by the State, for me it presented few attractions. It rained every other day on an average while I was driving across it; when it did not rain every other day, it rained two days in succession.

Passing from Council Bluffs through Weston, I followed what is called the “River to River Road” as far as Newton, Iowa. This is a road the citizens of Iowa are very proud of, and it runs across the State to Davenport. While it is kept up as well as possible, it is nothing but a dirt road after all, and rain does not help it any, as I discovered on entering the State, and was never able to forget, as it was one struggle with rain and mud all the way.

I imagine if a profile map of this cross section of the State were made, it would look like a lot of old-fashioned beehives set closely together, or a lot of eggs packed closely in sawdust, with the big ends sticking out about one-third of the way. Driving through such a country one is either going up, or going down, most of the time, and what might have been an easy pull up, and a slide down, resolved itself into a desperate struggle to get up, and a pull going down, on account of the mud. This was, of course, such a drag on the horses that I sometimes despaired of getting through with them anywhere near as soon as I had planned, but there were many amusing incidents en route which helped break the monotony.

Near Guthrie Center I met a very large red-faced woman in the road. She seemed much excited and out of breath. Stopping me she said her husband was stuck in the mud at the foot of the hill,--and would I pull him out?--she couldn’t. I hurried on to the bottom of the hill much excited myself, only to find a wagon stuck in the mud, and the man, an old soldier, bewailing his luck. I pulled up short and laughingly said, “I thought you were stuck in the mud, but I see it is your wagon.” I saw he was not in any mood to be laughed at, so I got down, and without saying any more took Bess out and asked him to unhitch his poorest horse, and I would pull him out.

He seemed quite disgusted and said, “Why don’t you take your team and put them on ahead of mine? You can’t pull her out with one horse.”

Still, to make a long story short, I did, and he apologized for his team and said they could have pulled the wagon out if they had been fresh, but they had pulled that load all the way from Guthrie Center. As I was putting Bess back to the wagon I could not help saying, “Yes, I am sure if your team had been fresh they could have pulled you out, but it is a long way to Guthrie Center, and this mare has only pulled her share from Los Angeles, California, and is quite fresh, you see.”

Climbing up into the wagon and reaching over for the lines I could not help but smile at the old man. He took his hat off and walking up alongside of the wagon, as I released the brake, he said, “Good Lord, stranger, I might have known you didn’t belong in these parts, or you wouldn’t have put yourself out to help me. I have been here an hour and a half, and lots of passers, and no one but you offered to help. I wish you good luck and lots of it.” I promised Bess an extra feed of oats that night on the old man’s account, and I hope he never gets stuck again where his wife can’t pull him out.

I had expected to reach Des Moines, Sunday, the eighteenth, and meet Mr. Lingle, who had offered to come out and spend a few days of his vacation with me in the schooner. As I was behind my schedule and had no way of telling when I would reach town, I telephoned into Des Moines and got my friend, Mr. Hippee, to bring Mr. Lingle out in his auto to meet me.

This arrangement resulted in my meeting Mr. Polk and Mr. Hippee, together with Mr. Lingle, in their auto just east of Adel at 11 A. M., Monday morning, the nineteenth. I was just twenty-four hours behind my schedule, but in view of the weather, and the going, I was much farther along than I had expected to be.

After a few words of greeting the auto went back, and Mr. Lingle and I continued on into Des Moines, which we reached at 6 P. M. Here we deserted the wagon for the hotel and spent a very enjoyable evening with friends.