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at the other man.”
                 “Yeah. Yo’re forgettin’ I was present when yu put Angel-face
through his paces,” Gerry said, and regretted the reminder when he saw the
twinkle in the other’s eyes.
                 “I
ain’t,” Sudden replied. “How’s this strike yu for a tombstone? `Here lies Gerry
Mason.
                 He
turned his back.’ ” The boy laughed. It was impossible to be angry with this
drawling, lazy-appearing stranger who had saved his life, and of whom he knew
nothing.

  Chapter
IV
                 For
weeks they had been traversing an apparently limitless, undulating waste of
short grass, burned brown by the sun, and broken here and there by shallow
ravines. There were no trees save occasional patches of cottonwoods by the
river-banks, but bushes of greasewood, sagebrush and prickly pear were more
plentiful. The nights were cold, the mornings clear and pleasant, but as the
day advanced the heat increased and the travellers were almost stifled by the
billowing clouds of sand and alkali dust churned up by the thousands of
plodding hoofs.
                 The
trail, scored and rutted by use, stretched out interminably to the horizon.
Twenty-five miles a day was good going, and unless an outfit broke down, no
attempt was made to pass it. If the daylight hours were long and monotonous,
nightfall brought plenty to do. Camp had to be made, the wagons ranged in big
circles, forage fetched—for the trail had been eaten bare for some distance on
both sides, wells dug—unless they were near a river—holes two or three feet
deep, into which the water slowly seeped.
                 Smudge
fires of greasewood or sage, aromatic but pungent and irritating, kept the
mosquitoes at bay, and then came supper—bacon, beans, cornbread, pies made of
dried fruits, and coffee.
                 The
Wayside contingent had joined the train two weeks earlier. The men had their
mounts, but a place was found for Miss Ducane in one of the leading wagons, to
which party her uncle, Lesurge, and Fagan also attached themselves. The cowboys
found a welcome with the traveller immediately behind, a raw-boned
agriculturist from Missouri, who had a small herd of cattle to serve as relays
for his team and to form a nucleus for the farm he hoped to establish.
                 For while some of the adventurers were headed for the goldfields,
more were genuine settlers, crossing the continent to people and till the
untamed soil of California and Oregon. The Missourian counted himself lucky to get a couple of cowboys to handle his herd
and was well content to feed them in return for their service. They too did not
complain, for his wife was a good cook.
                 “Which
that woman’s pumpkin pie is liable to wreck the happiness of any single fella,”
was how Gerry put it.
                 “I’m
takin’ yore word,” Sudden said satirically. “Gawd knows yu’ve concealed enough
of it; I never seen anyone push pie into his face so fast an’ frequent.” Before
the outraged young man could find an adequate retort, he deftly switched the
conversation, “Seen Miss Ducane lately?” The red crept up under the boy’s
tanned skin. His fondness for riding ahead to “take a look at the country” had
not escaped his companion’s notice. He had seen her but—and this was where the
shoe pinched—she had not, apparently, seen him. So he lied brazenly.
                 “No,”
he replied carelessly, “ She ‘pears to stick to that
blame’ wagon like she was glued to it. Mister Lesurge is plenty active though,
gettin’ to be quite popular among the parties goin’ to the Black Hills.” Sudden
digested this in silence. Actually it was no news; he had already observed
Lesurge’s efforts to get acquainted with that section of his fellow-travellers
and had put it down to the fellow’s natural vanity.