We rode for an hour or two, when a familiar cluster
of buildings appeared on a little hill. "Hallo!" shouted
the Kickapoo trader from over his fence, "where are you
going?" A few rather emphatic exclamations might have
been heard among us, when we found that we had gone
miles out of our way, and were not advanced an inch
toward the Rocky Mountains. So we turned in the direc-
tion the trader indicated; and with the sun for a guide,
began to trace a "bee-line" across the prairies. We strug-
gled through copses and lines of wood; we waded brooks
and pools of water; we traversed prairies as green as an
emerald expanding before us mile after mile, wider and
more wild than the wastes Mazeppa rode over.

"Man nor brute,
Nor dint of hoof, nor print of loot,
Lay in the wild luxuriant soil;
No sign of travel; none of toil;
The very air was mute."

Riding in advance, as we passed over one of these great
plains, we looked back and saw the line of scattered horse-
men stretching for a mile or more; and far in the rear,
against the horizon, the white wagons creeping slowly
along. "Here we are at last!" shouted the Captain.
And, in truth, we had struck upon the traces of a large
body of horse. We turned joyfully and followed this
new course, with tempers somewhat improved, and towards
sunset encamped on a high swell of the prairie, at the
foot of which a lazy stream soaked along through clumps
of rank grass. It was getting dark. We turned the horses

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