Part 12 (2/2)

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, hards.h.i.+ps 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, Cas.h.i.+er 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., Sat.u.r.day, 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 pa.s.sed 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.

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