"Snoozer shall have a pancake medal."
This was the first thing Ollie and I heard in the morning,
and it was Jack's voice addressing the hero of the night before.
We speedily rolled out, and agreed with Jack that Snoozer must be
suitably rewarded, he seemed fully to understand the importance
of his action in barking at the right moment, and for the first
morning on the whole trip he was up and about, waving his bushy
tail with great industry, and occasionally uttering a detached
bark, just to remind us of how he had done it. He walked around
the pony several times, and looked at her with a haughty air, as
much as to say, "Where would you be now if it hadn't been for
me?"
"He shall have a pancake," continued Jack--"the biggest and
best pancake which the skilful hand of this cook can concoct."
Jack proceeded to carry out his promise, and when breakfast
was ready presented a griddlecake, all flowing with melted
butter, to the dog, which was as big as could be made in the
frying-pan.
"I always knew," said Jack, "that Snoozer would do something
some day. He's lazy, but he's got brains. He would never bark at
the moon, because he knows the moon isn't doing anything wrong,
but when it comes to horse-thieves it's different."
Snoozer munched his pancake, occasionally stopping to give a
grand swing to his tail and let off a little yelp of pure joy.
As we were getting ready for a start, and speculating on the
prospect for water, a man came along, riding a mule, and we asked
him about it.
[Illustration: Old "Blenty Vaters"]
"Yah, blenty vaters," said the man. "Doan need to dake no
vaters along.'
"Any houses on the road?" asked Jack.
"Blenty houses," answered the stranger "houses, vaters,
efferydings."
We thanked him and started. Notwithstanding this assurance, I
had intended to fill a jug with water, but forgot it, and we went
off without a drop. We were going down what was called the Ridge
Road, along the divide between Elk and Elder creeks, and hoped to
reach the crossing of the Cheyenne at Smithville Post-office that
evening, and get on the Reservation the next morning. In half an
hour we passed some trees which marked the site of the Washday
Springs, but there was no house there, nor had we seen one at
eleven o'clock. We met an Indian on foot, and Jack said to him:
"Where can we get some water?"
The Indian shook his head. "Cheyenne River," he replied.
"Isn't there any this side?"
"No," with another jerk of the head. Then he stalked on.
"Yes, and the Indian's right, I'll warrant," exclaimed Jack.
"'Blenty raters,' indeed! Why, that Dutchman doesn't know enough
to ache when he's hurt."
"Well, we're in for it," said I. "We can't go back. Maybe
it'll rain," though there was not a cloud in sight, and there was
more danger of an earthquake than of a shower.
So we went on, and a little after dark wound down among the
black baked bluffs to the crossing, without any of us having had
a drop to drink since before sunrise. After we had "lowered the
river six inches," as Jack declared, we went into camp.
We were up early in the morning, and Jack went down the river
with his gun and got a brace of grouse. There was one house near
the crossing, which was the post-office. The man who lived there
told us it was a hundred and twenty-five miles across the
Reservation to Pierre, and twenty miles to Peno Hill, the first
station at which we should find any one. The ford was deep, the
water coming up to the wagon-box, and there was ice along the
edges of the river. It was a fine clear day, however, and the
cold did not trouble us much. We wound up among the bluffs on the
other side of the river, and at the top had our last sight of the
Black Hills. We went on across the rolling prairie, black as ink,
as .the grass had all been burned off, and reached Peno Hill at a
little after noon. There was a rough board building, one end of
it a house and the other a barn. All of the stage stations were
built after this plan. We camped here for dinner, and pressed on
to reach Grizzly Shaw's for the night. About the middle of the
afternoon we passed Bad River Station, kept by one Mexican Ed.
"I'm going to watch and see if he runs when he sees Snoozer,"
said Ollie. Snoozer had insisted on walking most of the time
since his adventure with the horse-thieves; but, greatly to
Ollie's disappointment, Mexican Ed showed no signs of fear even
when Snoozer went so far as to growl at him.
As it grew dark we passed among the Grindstone
Buttes--several small hills. A prairie fire was burning among
them, and lit up the road for us. We came to Shaw's at last, and
went into camp. We visited the house before we went to bed, and
found that Shaw was grizzly enough to justify his name, and that
he had a family consisting of a wife and daughter and two
grandchildren.
"Pierre is our post-office," said Shaw, "eighty-five miles
away."
"The postman doesn't bring out your letters, then?" returned
Jack.
"We ain't much troubled with postmen, nor policemen, nor
hand-organ men, nor no such things," answered Shaw. "Still, once
in a while a sheriff goes by looking for somebody."
We told him of our experience with thieves, and he said:
"It's a wonder they didn't get your pony. There's lots of 'em
hanging about the edge of the Reserve, because it's a good place
for 'em to hide."
"Must make a very pleasant little walk down to the
post-office when you want to mail a letter," said Jack, after we
got back to the wagon--"eighty-five miles. And think of getting
there, and finding that you had left the letter on the hall
table, and having to go back!"
We were off again the next morning, as usual. At noon we
stopped at Mitchell Creek, where we found another family,
including a little girl five or six years old, who carried her
doll in a shawl on her back, as she had seen the Indian women
carry their babies. We had intended to reach Plum Creek for the
night, but got on slower than we expected, owing partly to a
strong head-wind, so darkness overtook us at Frozen Man's Creek.
"Not a very promising name for a November camping-place,"
said Jack, "but I guess we'll have to stop. I don't believe it's
cold enough to freeze anybody to-night."
There was no house here, but there was water, and plenty of
tall, dry grass, so it made a good place for us to stop. Frozen
Man's Creek, as well as all the others, was a branch of the Bad
River, which flowed parallel with the trail to the Missouri. We
camped just east of the creek. The grass was so high that we
feared to build a camp-fire, and cooked supper in the wagon.
"I'm glad we've got out of the burned region," said Jack.
"It's dismal, and I like to hear the wind cutting through the dry
grass with its sharp swish."
There was a heavy wind blowing from the southeast, but we
turned the rear of the wagon in that direction, saw that the
brake was firmly on, and went to bed feeling that we should not
blow away.
"I wonder who the poor man was that was frozen here?" was the
last thing Jack said before he went to sleep. "Book agent going
out to Shaw's, perhaps, to sell him a copy of 'Every Man his Own
Barber; or, How to Cut your Own Hair with a Lawn-Mower.'"
We were doomed to one more violent awakening in the old
Rattletrap. At two o'clock in the morning I was roused up by the
loud neighing of the horses. Old Blacky's hoarse voice was
especially strong. As I opened my eyes there was a reddish glare
coming through the white cover. "Prairie fire!" flashed into my
mind instantly, and I gave Jack a shake and got out of the front
of the wagon as quickly as I could. I had guessed aright; the
flames were sweeping up the shallow valley of the creek before
the wind as fast as a horse could travel.
[Illustration: In the Prairie Fire]
Jack came tumbling out, and we knew instantly what to do. We both
ran a few yards ahead of the wagon and knelt in the grass, and
struck matches almost at the same moment. Jack's went out, but
mine caught, and a little flame leaped up, reached over and to both
sides, and then rolled away before the wind, spreading wider and
wider. I beat out the feeble blaze which tried to work to
windward, and ran back to the wagon, while Jack went after the
horses. The coming flames were almost upon us by this time; but
Ollie was out, and together, aided by the wind, we rolled the wagon
ahead on our little new-made oasis of safety. Jack pulled up the
pony's picket-pin, and brought her on also, while the other horses,
being loose, sought the place themselves. The flames came up to
the edge of the burned place, reached over for more grass, did not
find it, and died out. But on both sides of us they rushed on, and
soon overtook our little fire, and went on to the northwest. The
wind, first hot from the fire, now came cool and fresh, though full
of the odor of the burned grass.
"Closest call we've had," said Jack. "Yes," I replied; "been
pretty warm for us if we hadn't waked up. Our animals are doing
better; first Snoozer distinguished himself, and now I think we've
to thank Old Blacky mainly for this alarm."
We were pretty well frightened, and though we went back to bed, I
do not believe that any of us slept again that night. At the first
touch of dawn we were up. As it grew lighter, the great change in
the landscape became apparent. The gray of the prairie was turned
to the blackest of black. Only an occasional big staring buffalo
skull relieved the inkiness. Far away to the northwest we could
see a low hanging cloud of smoke where the fire was still burning.
"Blacky ought to have a hay medal," said Jack at breakfast. "If I
had any hay I'd twist him up one as big as a door-mat."
But Blacky, unlike Snoozer, seemed to have no pride in his
achievement, and he wandered all around the neighborhood trying to
find a mouthful of grass which had been missed by the fire; but he
was not successful.
"If the frozen man had been here last night he'd have been thawed
out," I said.
"Yes; and if Shaw had been here, what a good time it would have
been for him to let the fire run over his hair and clear off the
thickest of it!" returned Jack.
We started on, but the long wind had brought bad weather, and
before noon it began to snow. It kept up the rest of the day, and
by night it was three or four inches deep. We stopped at noon at
Lance Creek, and made our night camp at Willow Creek; at each place
there was a stage station in charge of one man. It cleared off as
night came on, but the wind changed to the north, and it grew
rapidly colder. Shortly after midnight we all woke up with the
cold. We already had everything piled on the beds, but as we were
too cold to sleep, there was nothing to do but to get up and start
the camp-fire again. This we did, and stayed near it the rest of
the night, and in this way kept warm at the expense of our sleep.
The morning was clear, but it was by far the coldest we had
experienced. The thermometer at the station marked below zero at
sunrise. We almost longed for another prairie fire. It grew a
little warmer after we started, and at about eleven o'clock we
reached Fort Pierre, on the Missouri, opposite the town Of Pierre.
The ferry-boat had not yet been over for the day, but was expected
in the afternoon.
"You're lucky to get it at all," said a man to us. "It is liable
to stop any day now, and then, till the ice is thick enough for
crossing, there will be no way of getting over."
The boat came puffing across toward night, and we were safely
landed east of the Missouri once more. But we were still two
hundred miles from home; the country was well settled most of the
way, however, and we felt that our voyage was almost ended. Little
happened worthy of mention in the week which it took us to traverse
this distance. The weather became warmer and was pleasant most of
the way. On the last night out it snowed again a little and grew
colder. We were still a long day's drive from Prairie Flower, but
we determined to make that port even if it took half the night.
[Illustration: Well! Well! Well!]
It was ten o'clock when we saw the lights of the town.
"Here we are," said Jack, "and I vote we've had a good time,
and that we forgive Old Blacky his temper, and old Browny and
Snoozer their sleepiness, and Ollie his questions, and the
rancher his general incompetence."
"And the cook his pancakes!" cried Ollie. We stopped a little
way in front of Squire Poinsett's grocery, and Jack picked up the
big revolver and fired the six shots into the air. The pony had
come alongside the wagon, and Snoozer had his head over the
dash-board. Half a dozen people came running out, including
Grandpa Oldberry, wearing red yarn mittens and carrying a
lantern. He held up the light and looked at us.
"Well, I vum," he exclaimed, "if it ain't them three pesky
scallawags back safe and sound! I've said all along that varmints
would get ye sure, and we'd never see hide nor hair of ye again!
Well, well, well!"
It was clear that Grandpa was just a little disappointed to
see that his predictions hadn't been fulfilled.
So the voyage of the good schooner Rattletrap was ended. It
had been over a thousand miles in length, and had lasted for more
than two months.