"Thank you," she said faintly. "You are very kind, but we must go."
"Well, then," said Mrs. Matilda Pitman, throwing open the door, "your
team is ready for you. I made Robert catch your ponies and harness
them. And I made him fix that broken tongue properly. I enjoy making
Robert do things. It's almost the only sport I have left. I'm eighty
and most things have lost their flavour, except bossing Robert."
Our democrat and ponies were outside the door, but Robert was nowhere
to be seen; in fact, we never saw him again.
"I do wish," said Kate, plucking up what little spirit she had left,
"that you would let us--ah--uh"--Kate quailed before Mrs. Matilda
Pitman's eye--"recompense you for our entertainment."
"Mrs. Matilda Pitman said before--and meant it--that she doesn't take
pay for entertaining strangers, nor let other people where she lives
do it, much as their meanness would like to do it."
We got away. The sulky Amelia had vanished, and there was nobody to
see us off except Mrs. Matilda Pitman.
"Don't forget to call the next time you come this way," she said
cheerfully, waving her knitting at us. "I hope you'll get safe to
Bothwell. If I was ten years younger I vow I'd pack a grip and go
along with you. I like your spunk. Most of the girls nowadays is such
timid, skeery critters. When I was a girl I wasn't afraid of nothing
or nobody."
We said and did nothing until we had driven out of sight and earshot.
Then Kate laid down the reins and laughed until the tears came.
"Oh, Phil, Phil, will you ever forget this adventure?" she gasped.
"I shall never forget Mrs. Matilda Pitman," I said emphatically.
We had no further adventures that day. Robert Chapman had fixed the
tongue so well--probably under Mrs. Matilda Pitman's watchful
eyes--that we could drive as fast as we liked; and we made good
progress. But when we pitched camp that night Kate scanned the sky
with an anxious expression. "I don't like the look of it," she said.
"I'm afraid we're going to have a bad day tomorrow."
* * * * *
We had. When we awakened in the morning rain was pouring down. This in
itself might not have prevented us from travelling, but the state of
the trail did. It had been raining the greater part of the night and
the trail was little more than a ditch of slimy, greasy, sticky mud.
If we could have stayed in the tent the whole time it would not have
been quite so bad. But we had to go out twice to take the ponies to
the nearest pond and water them; moreover, we had to collect pea vines
for them, which was not an agreeable occupation in a pouring rain. The
day was very cold too, but fortunately there was plenty of dead poplar
right by our camp. We kept a good fire on in the camp stove and were
quite dry and comfortable as long as we stayed inside. Even when we
had to go out we did not get very wet, as we were well protected. But
it was a long dreary day. Finally when the dark came down and supper
was over Kate grew quite desperate. "Let's have a game of checkers,"
she suggested.
"Where is your checkerboard?" I asked.
"Oh, I'll soon furnish that," said Kate.
She cut out a square of brown paper, in which a biscuit box had been
wrapped, and marked squares off on it with a pencil. Then she produced
some red and white high-bush cranberries for men. A cranberry split in
two was a king.
We played nine games of checkers by the light of our smoky lantern.
Our enjoyment of the game was heightened by the fact that it had
ceased raining. Nevertheless, when morning came the trail was so
drenched that it was impossible to travel on it.
"We must wait till noon," said Kate.
"That trail won't be dry enough to travel on for a week," I said
disconsolately.
"My dear; the chinook is blowing up," said Kate. "You don't know how
quickly a trail dries in a chinook. It's like magic."
I did not believe a chinook or anything else could dry up that trail
by noon sufficiently for us to travel on. But it did. As Kate said, it
seemed like magic. By one o'clock we were on our way again, the
chinook blowing merrily against our faces. It was a wind that blew
straight from the heart of the wilderness and had in it all the potent
lure of the wild. The yellow prairie laughed and glistened in the sun.
We made twenty-five miles that afternoon and, as we were again
fortunate enough to find a bluff of dead poplar near which to camp, we
built a royal camp-fire which sent its flaming light far and wide over
the dark prairie.
We were in jubilant spirits. If the next day were fine and nothing
dreadful happened to us, we would reach Bothwell before night.
But our ill luck was not yet at an end. The next morning was
beautiful. The sun shone warm and bright; the chinook blew balmily and
alluringly; the trail stretched before us dry and level. But we sat
moodily before our tent, not even having sufficient heart to play
checkers. Tom had gone lame--so lame that there was no use in thinking
of trying to travel with him. Kate could not tell what was the matter.
"There is no injury that I can see," she said. "He must have sprained
his foot somehow."
Wait we did, with all the patience we could command. But the day was
long and wearisome, and at night Tom's foot did not seem a bit better.
We went to bed gloomily, but joy came with the morning. Tom's foot was
so much improved that Kate decided we could go on, though we would
have to drive slowly.
"There's no chance of making Bothwell today," she said, "but at least
we shall be getting a little nearer to it."
"I don't believe there is such a place as Bothwell, or any other
town," I said pessimistically. "There's nothing in the world but
prairie, and we'll go on driving over it forever, like a couple of
female Wandering Jews. It seems years since we left Arrow Creek."
"Well, we've had lots of fun out of it all, you know," said Kate.
"Mrs. Matilda Pitman alone was worth it. She will be an amusing memory
all our lives. Are you sorry you came?"
"No, I'm not," I concluded, after honest, soul-searching reflection.
"No, I'm glad, Kate. But I think we were crazy to attempt it, as
Sergeant Baker said. Think of all the might-have-beens."
"Nothing else will happen," said Kate. "I feel in my bones that our
troubles are over."
Kate's bones proved true prophets. Nevertheless, that day was a weary
one. There was no scenery. We had got into a barren, lakeless,
treeless district where the world was one monotonous expanse of
grey-brown prairie. We just crawled along. Kate had her hands full
driving those ponies. Jerry was in capital fettle and couldn't
understand why he mightn't tear ahead at full speed. He was so much
disgusted over being compelled to walk that he was very fractious.
Poor Tom limped patiently along. But by night his lameness had quite
disappeared, and although we were still a good twenty-five miles from
Bothwell we could see it quite distinctly far ahead on the level
prairie.
"'Tis a sight for sore eyes, isn't it?" said Kate, as we pitched camp.
There is little more to be told. Next day at noon we rattled through
the main and only street of Bothwell. Curious sights are frequent in
prairie towns, so we did not attract much attention. When we drew up
before Mr. Taylor's house Mary Taylor flew out and embraced Kate
publicly.
"You darling! I knew you'd get here if anyone could. They telegraphed
us you were on the way. You're a brick--two bricks."
"No, I'm not a brick at all, Miss Taylor," I confessed frankly. "I've
been an arrant coward and a doubting Thomas and a wet blanket all
through the expedition. But Kate is a brick and a genius and an
all-round, jolly good fellow."
"Mary," said Kate in a tragic whisper,
"have--you--any--ham--in--the--house?"