Left on the Prairie

Little Jack Wilson had been born in England; but when he was quite a baby his parents had sailed across the sea, taking him with them, and settled out on one of the distant prairies of America. Of course, Jack was too small when he left to remember anything of England himself, but as he grew older he liked to hear his father and mother talk about the old country where he and they had been born, and to which they still seemed to cling with great affection.

Sometimes, as they looked out-of-doors over the burnt-up prairie round their new home, his father would tell him about the trim green fields they had left so far behind them, and say with a sigh, 'Old England was like a garden, but this place is nothing but a wilderness!'

Longview was the name of the lonely western village where George Wilson, his wife, and Jack had lived for eight years, and although we should not have thought it a particularly nice place, they were very happy there. Longview was half-way between two large mining towns, sixty miles apart, and as there was no railway in those parts, the people going to and from the different mines were obliged to travel by waggons, and often halted for a night at Longview to break the journey.

It was a very hot and dusty village in summer, as there were no nice trees to give pleasant shade from the sun, and the staring rows of wooden houses that formed the streets had no gardens in front to make them look pretty. In winter it was almost worse, for the cold winds came sweeping down from the distant mountains and rushed shrieking across the plains towards the unprotected village. They whirled the snow into clouds, making big drifts, and whistled round the frame houses as if threatening to blow them right away.

Jack was used to it, however, and, in spite of the heat and cold, was a happy little lad. His parents had come to America, in the first place, because times were so bad in England, and secondly, because Mrs. Wilson's only sister had emigrated many years before them to Longview, and had been so anxious to have her relations near her.

Aunt Sue, as Jack called her, had married very young, and accompanied her husband, Mat Byrne, to the West. He was a miner, and when he worked got good wages; but he was an idle, thriftless fellow, who soon got into disfavour with his employers, and a year or two after the Wilsons came he took to drink, and made sad trouble for his wife and his three boys. George Wilson had expostulated with him often, and begged him to be more steady, but Mat was jealous of his honest brother-in-law, who worked so hard and was fairly comfortable, and therefore he resented the kind words of advice, and George was obliged to leave him alone.

George Wilson made his living by freighting-that is, carrying goods from place to place by waggons, as there was no rail by which to send things. Sometimes, when he took extra long journeys, he would have to leave his wife and boy for some weeks to keep each other company.

'Take care of your mother, Jack, my boy,' he would say, before starting. 'She has no man to look after her or do things for her but ye till I get home.' And right well did the little fellow obey orders. He was a most helpful boy for his age, and was devoted to his mother, who was far from strong. He got up early every morning, and did what are called the chores in America; these are all the small daily jobs that have to be done in and around a house. First, he chopped wood and lit a fire in the stove; after that he carried water in a bucket and filled the kettle, and then leaving the water to boil, he laid the breakfast-table and ground the coffee.

When breakfast was over, he ran off to school, and afterwards had many a good romp with his cousins, Steve, Hal, and Larry Byrne, who lived quite close to his home. Jack was very fond of his Aunt Sue; she was so like his gentle mother. He often ran in to see her, but he always fled when he heard his Uncle Mat coming, whose loud, rough voice frightened him.

Jack was very sorry for his cousins, as they did not seem to care a bit for their father; indeed, at times they were very much afraid of him, and Steve, the eldest, who was a big fellow, nearly sixteen, told Jack that if it wasn't for his mother, he would run away from home and go off to be a cowboy, instead of working as a miner with his father. But he knew what a sad trouble it would be to the poor woman if he went away from her, and he was too good a son to give her pain.

When his father was away freighting, Jack, even while he was at play, kept a good look-out across the prairie, watching every day for his return. He could see for miles, and when he spied the white top of the familiar waggon appearing in the distance, he would rush home shouting, 'Mother! Mother! Daddy's coming! I see the waggon ever such a long way off.' And then the two would get to work and prepare a nice supper for him.

Jack could help his father, too, when he arrived home, for there were four tired horses to unharness, and water, and feed. Jack knew them all well; Buck and Jerry in front as leaders, and Rufus and Billy harnessed to the waggon. George Wilson was very proud of his horses, and they certainly had a good master, for he always looked after them first, and saw them comfortably into their stable before he began his own supper.

'JACK COULD HELP HIS FATHER, TOO,

WHEN HE ARRIVED HOME.'

Trouble, however, was dawning over the happy household. The life in the hot village had never suited Mrs. Wilson, and it told on her more as time went on. She looked white and thin, and felt so tired and weary if she did any work, that her husband got alarmed and brought in a doctor to see her. The doctor frightened him still more. He said the place was slowly killing her, as the air was so close and hot.

'You must take her away at once,' he said emphatically, 'if you want to save her life. She has been here too long, I fear, as it is. Go away to the mountains and try the bracing air up there; she may come back quite strong after a year there if she avoids all unnecessary fatigue. Take my advice and go as soon as you can. There's no time to lose!'

These words came as an awful shock to George Wilson, who had no idea his wife was so ill, and had hoped a few bottles of tonic from the doctor would restore her failing strength. But the medical warning could not be disregarded, and he could see for himself now how fast she was wasting away. They must go away from Longview as soon as possible.

It was a sad thing for the Wilsons to contemplate the breaking up of their home, but there was no help for it. They talked matters well over, and came at last to the conclusion that it would be better not to take Jack with them. They would probably be moving on from place to place, and in a year he would forget all he had learnt at school. After a long consultation with Aunt Sue, it was arranged that Jack should stay at the Byrnes' house and keep on at his lessons, his Uncle Mat having given his consent after hearing the Wilsons would pay well for his keep.

George Wilson and his wife felt keenly the idea of leaving Jack, and it was agreed that if they decided to stay in the mountains altogether, someone should be found who would take the boy to them.

It was terrible breaking the news to poor little Jack that his parents were going away from him, and for a time he was quite inconsolable. His father talked very kindly and quietly to him, and at last made him see that the arrangement was really all for the best.

'Ye see, Jack,' he said, 'the doctor says your mother is seriously ill, an' the only chance for her is to take her off to the mountains.'

'Can't I go too, Daddy?' pleaded Jack, with tears in his eyes. 'I'll do such lots o' work.'

'No, my lad; it won't do for ye to miss yer schoolin', as ye'd be bound to do if ye came wanderin' about with us. It's only fur a year, so ye must try an' be a brave boy, an' stay with yer good Aunt Sue until we come back agin or send fur ye. We know what's best fur ye, an', laddie, won't it be fine if Mother gets strong and well agin?'

'Aye, dad! That would be grand!' said Jack, brightening up.

'Well, it's a sad partin' fur us all; but there's nothin' else to be done, an' ye must try an' keep up a good heart fur yer mother's sake, as I doubt she'll fret sadly o'er leavin' ye.'

Jack promised to be brave, but there was a troubled look on his usually bright face as he watched the rapid preparations going on for the departure. The things had to be sold out of the house, as they could not take much with them. The sale at first excited Jack, as so many people came to buy; but when he saw their furniture, beds, chairs and tables all being carried oft by strangers, he realized fully what the breaking up of his home meant, and it made him feel very sad.

There was a lot to be done. Jack went with his father to buy a stock of provisions for their long journey, and then they tried to make the clumsy waggon as comfortable as possible for the sick mother. Aunt Sue packed up, as her sister was so weak, and the trial of leaving Jack was proving almost too much for her slender stock of strength. All the same, she bravely tried to hide the pain the parting gave her, and for her boy's sake tried to be cheerful even to the last.

Alone with Aunt Sue, she opened her heart, and received true sympathy in her trouble from that good woman, who knew well that the chief sorrow to her sister was the fear she might never see her little lad again.

'You mustn't get so down-hearted, Maggie,' said Mrs. Byrne kindly, 'but hope for the best. I have heard the air in them mountains is just wonderful to cure cases like yours, and perhaps ye'll get quite strong afore long.'

'If it pleases God,' said her sister gently. 'And now, Sue, ye'll promise me to look well after Jack. I know ye're fond o' him fur his own sake as well as mine; but I'm feared if Mat gets one o' his mad fits on he might treat him badly.'

'Don't you fear, Maggie,' returned Mrs. Byrne soothingly; 'I'll treat him as one o' my boys, an' ye know I manage to keep them out o' their father's way when he's too quarrelsome. Besides, Mat knows as ye're payin' well for Jack, and that, if naught else, will keep him civil to the lad.'

'I hope so,' murmured the mother sadly; 'an' if all goes well we'll have our boy with us again in a year.'

'Aye, a year'll go quick enough, never fear!' concluded her sister cheerfully; 'an' Jack'll get on finely at his schoolin' in that time.'

The night before they started came, and Jack, who had gone early to bed, lay sobbing quietly to himself, quite unable to go to sleep. Before long his mother came softly into the room and stood beside him. She noticed the flushed, tear-stained face on the pillow, and exclaimed in a grieved voice, 'Oh, Jack, darling, don't take on so! It'll break my heart if I think o' ye frettin' all the time.'

'I can't help it, Mother!' cried Jack. 'What shall I do without Dad an' ye?'

'Ye must think o' the meeting ahead, dearie. P'raps if Daddy does well in this new part of the country, an' I can get strong again, we may make our home up near the grand mountains as ye've never seen. It's so different from this hot prairie, fur there are big trees to shade ye from the sun, an' little brooks, called creeks, running down the sides of the hills.'

'Aye, I'd like to go an' live up thar,' cried Jack. 'I hope ye'll send fur me soon, an' I'll try an' be good. I do love Aunt Sue, but I'm scared o' Uncle Mat at times.'

'Never fear, Jack,' said his mother, putting her arms round him; 'Aunt Sue'll see as ye come to no harm. But, oh! dearie, how I wish I could take ye with me!' And the poor woman broke down and mingled her tears with Jack's.

But the boy suddenly remembered his promise to his father, and, knowing how bad the excitement was for his mother, he made a great effort to stop crying, and, rubbing his tears away, he said, 'Mother! this won't do; I promised Dad I'd be brave!'

'You're right, Jack. We mustn't give way again. I ought to have kept up better. I must be goin' now, dearie, an' before I say good-night, will ye promise me not to forget to say yer prayers every day, an' ask God to take care of us all till we meet again?'

'I promise,' said Jack gravely.

'An' ye'll sing the hymns I've taught ye sometimes, won't ye, laddie?' asked his mother softly.

'I won't forget,' returned Jack, as he kissed her wet cheek; and then she went away with a feeling of comfort in her heavy heart.

'A year isn't so very long,' murmured the boy to himself, and before long fell asleep.

Next morning his parents started, and Jack, after the terrible good-byes had been said, stood watching the retreating waggon until it became like a speck in the distance. At last it vanished altogether, and then the boy's loss seemed to overwhelm him. In a frenzy of grief he rushed off to the woodshed, and wept as if his heart would break.

'HE RUSHED OFF TO THE WOODSHED, AND

WEPT AS IF HIS HEART WOULD BREAK.'

But Aunt Sue guessed the tumult of sorrow that was going on in the young heart, and she soon came to find him and offer comfort. She was so like his dear mother, with her sweet voice and gentle manner, that she soothed him in his trouble; and when she proposed he should help her to get the house brushed out and tidied up, he gladly threw himself into the work.

He was helping his aunt to lay the things on the table when his uncle came in. He had not seen the boy before, and even he felt a bit sorry for the poor lad, so he said not ungraciously, 'That's right, Sue, make him useful. There's nothin' so good fur sick hearts as work.'

Poor Jack flushed at this speech, as it touched him on a sore point; but he saw his uncle did not intend to hurt his feelings by the words, and he tried to swallow the lump that would rise in his throat. The three boys came in for supper, and Hal and Larry looked curiously to see how Jack was taking his trouble; but he was determined they should see no sign of tears from him, and they did not suspect that the little heart was nearly bursting.

Steve was a most good-natured lad, rough to look at, but with a large slice of his mother's kind heart, and he now looked quietly after Jack, seeing that he had a good supper. He was very fond of his small cousin, who in return was devoted to him, and the big boy felt sorry when he noticed the effort Jack was making to keep up a brave face before Hal and Larry.

Very soon Aunt Sue suggested he should go to bed, which he was glad to do, and once there, he was so tired out with his grief he fell fast asleep.

Over a year had passed away since Jack's parents had left Longview for the mountains, and the boy was just nine and a half; but he was no longer the same happy little fellow as when we first knew him. Great changes for the worse had taken place, and misfortunes had come thick and fast upon him.

He lost his good Aunt Sue, for she died of heart disease ten months after his parents' departure. How poor Jack missed her! His uncle very soon afterward married again, and his new wife was a loud-voiced, harsh woman, who treated Jack most unkindly.

Steve, too, his great friend, had gone away, as he had long threatened, to be a cowboy, for he found the life at home unbearable without his mother. Hal and Larry, who had not improved as they grew older, took good care to keep away from the house, except for meals; and thus Jack, as the youngest, had to bear the brunt of everything. He no longer went to school, for his uncle's wife wanted him to wash floors, carry water, and go endless errands for her. Every morning and evening he had to look for Roanie, the cow, who was given to wandering off on the prairie for long distances, searching for better pasture. When he had driven her home he had to milk her, and if he chanced to be late getting her in he was severely scolded, and oftentimes deprived of his supper.

It was a hard life for the little lad, and many a night he sobbed himself to sleep as he thought sadly of the happy days before his parents left him.

There was another thought troubling him, and that was, Why hadn't his people sent for him, as they promised? Was it possible that they had forgotten him, or meant to leave him for years with Uncle Mat?

It was dreadful to think about, but there was no getting over the facts of the case, and Jack knew right well that it was long past the time they had said he should be away from them. Only one year! He remembered it as if it were but yesterday, but not even a message had come for him. He could not understand it, and his heart felt sad and sore as he often crept away to escape his uncle's drunken wrath or the wife's cruel blows.

One evening he could not find Roanie for nearly two hours, and when he got home, tired and hungry, he found Mrs. Byrne in a bad temper. She gave him a little dry bread for supper, and, anxious to get away from her tongue, Jack stole off across the prairie for some way, where, lying on the short, burnt-up grass, he gave vent to his misery, and burying his head in his hands, had a good cry.

Suddenly he heard the sound of horse's hoofs approaching him, and a great jingling of spurs, as someone dashed up close to him and stopped abruptly. Jack looked up, and was surprised to see his cousin Steve, looking very smart and happy.

'Hello, young un!' he cried, jumping off his horse. 'I thought it was you, so I turned off the prairie road to see. What's the trouble? You'll drown everyone in Longview if you cry so hard.'

Jack sat up and wiped his streaming eyes with his sleeve. 'Oh, Steve!' he exclaimed, 'I'm so unhappy. I'm glad you've come, for they're so unkind to me, and I'm beginning to doubt as Father and Mother have forgot me. They've never sent for me.'

'Don't fret, Jack,' said Steve; 'they haven't forgot you, never fear. D'you know,' he went on slowly, 'I've found out as they sent for you long ago, an' he'll not let you go.' Steve nodded towards his home.

'He!' repeated Jack in astonishment. 'Uncle Mat! Why, he hates me, Steve, an' I guess he'd be only too glad to get rid o' me.'

'Not he!' returned Steve. 'You're better than a servant to that woman, for she'd never get anyone to work as hard as you, an' she ain't a-goin' to let you leave. I heard a tale from Long Jim Taylor, as worked in the mine with Father, an' it's that as brought me home now. Father was drunk one day, an' let out about a mean trick as he'd played on your folks, an' you, too, for the matter o' that; an' though he denied it afterwards, I'm sure it's true, an' I'll talk my mind to him afore I'm done.'

Steve looked so furious, Jack felt almost frightened as he asked timidly, 'What was it, Steve? Tell me what he has done.'

'Well, then, kid, listen!' said the cowboy. 'He never wrote to say Mother was dead, but gave your folks to understand as it was you as was buried; said as how you'd had a bad fall an' died terrible sudden, an' there was no time to get 'em over.'

Jack's eyes had grown rounder and larger with horrified surprise as he listened to Steve's story.

'How wicked of him!' he cried. 'But, Steve, I wonder he wasn't afraid o' their hearin' about it.'

'Aye, and so do I,' answered his cousin. 'I believe, however, he has been meanin' to move to some other part o' the country an' take you. Your folks are settled a long way off, an', thinkin' as you're dead, they'll probably never come back here again, so he'd be pretty safe.'

'What shall I do, Steve?' asked Jack piteously. 'I'll ask Uncle Mat about it this very night.'

'Don't make him angry,' returned the cowboy kindly; 'but tell him you have heard what he's done, an' you are bound to go to your folks somehow. I'll tell him what I think when I meet him in the street. I ain't a-goin' near that house with that woman there, so if you want to see me, come here to-morrow evening.'

'I will, Steve. Good-night.' And Jack darted away.

Jack felt very brave and determined when he left his cousin, but his courage failed a little as he approached the house. The door was open, and as he drew near he heard his uncle and his wife talking loudly, and caught his own name.

'I'm not such a fool as to let Jack go back to them,' he heard his uncle say, 'in spite o' what Jim Taylor wrote sayin' he'd told Steve, an' the lad was so angry he was comin' over to make things right for Jack. The boy's worth fifty cents a day to us, an'll make more afore long; so the sooner we clear out o' here, an' make for a part o' the country where we ain't known the better. I guess we needn't let Steve into the secret o' our whereabouts, if we can get off afore he comes.'

Jack's pulses were beating fast as he listened to this speech. He shook with indignation, and at last, unable to stand it any longer, he rushed into the kitchen, exclaiming: 'Uncle Mat, I heard what you were sayin', an' I must go to my folks. I thought as they'd forgot me, an' now I know they haven't, but you've told 'em a lie.'

A look almost of fear crossed the man's face at first when Jack burst in, but it was quickly replaced by a hard and cruel smile.

'Listenin', were you?' he said angrily, 'Well, listeners hear no good o' themsel's, an' it's a mighty bad habit to give way to. Perhaps a touch o' the whip will make you forget what wasn't meant for you to hear.'

'Oh! don't beat me, please, Uncle Mat,' cried poor Jack.

But there was no mercy to be had this time, and when his punishment was over, Jack, quite exhausted, made his way to his miserable bed, which was in a shed adjoining the house. Through the thin wooden walls he could hear the two Byrnes talking and planning to leave Longview as soon as possible, and he felt sick with fright as he heard them arrange to take him too.

'Oh dear! oh dear!' murmured the boy sadly. 'What will become o' me? If Steve don't save me I don't know what they'll do to me. But I'm glad I didn't say I'd seen him.'

In spite of his aching bones, Steve's assurance that his parents had not forgotten him, as he feared, was a great comfort to the lonely little lad, and, thinking hopefully of his interview with Steve the next day, he fell asleep and forgot his troubles.

Jack could hardly get up the next morning, he was so stiff and bruised from the beating his uncle had given him, but he was not the kind of boy to moan and groan in bed. He dragged himself up and dressed, and after washing and dipping his head into cool water in the back yard, he felt better, and soon got to work, lighting the fire and getting the things ready for breakfast. He rather dreaded meeting his Uncle Mat, but although the man looked surly enough, he did not allude to the occurrence of the previous evening, and after breakfast, to Jack's relief, he left the house.

The day seemed longer than usual, but Jack finished his work at last, and hastened away to the place where he and Steve had arranged to meet.

His cousin was already waiting there, lying on the ground, lazily watching his horse quietly grazing the herbage near. He hailed Jack heartily.

'Well! how did you get on last night?'

'Very badly, Steve,' returned the boy, and related how he had been treated. Great was Steve's indignation when he heard what had taken place and looked at Jack's bruised back.

'Poor little lad!' he said pityingly. 'He has been hard on you, I can see. He licked me once in a rage, an' I wouldn't stay a day longer in his house, for I hadn't done wrong. I saw him to-day, an' we had a terrible row over you. I gave him a piece o' my mind about the way he was keepin' you from your folks under false pretences.'

'Steve!' cried Jack suddenly, a ray of joy crossing his face, 'I've got a plan in my head. You ran away from home, an' why shouldn't I?'

'Aye! but I was a big fellow over sixteen, an' you're but a little un, not much more than a baby yet,' returned Steve.

'But I shouldn't be afraid to try,' declared Jack stoutly. 'I might get lifts from folks goin' along the road.'

'You're right there,' exclaimed Steve. 'It isn't such a bad idea after all. You're a plucky boy, for I never thought as you had the grit to make a bolt on it. If you're sure you aren't frightened to go so far alone, I do believe as I might be able to help you a bit on your way.'

'Could you, Steve?' cried Jack. 'Oh! do tell me how.'

'Well! There's a waggon here now belongin' to some miners who are on their way to the "Rockies" to prospect. I know one o' them, an' it would be a grand scheme if he would let you go along with him. Shall I ask him?'

'Please do,' said Jack. 'I'm ready to start any minute they want to go, an' I promise I won't give 'em any trouble. Oh, Steve, I must get away from here!'

'All right! I'll try an' fix it for you,' returned Steve. 'Wouldn't it be a surprise for your folks if they saw you walk in one fine day? I don't quite know where they live, except that they're somewhere on the Cochetopa Creek, but I reckon if you do get that far as you'll find 'em. I'll see the miner to-morrow. He's campin' t'other side o' the village. I guess he won't object to takin' you, as I'll tell him you're a handy little chap. I believe I'd have gone an' seen you safe there myself, but I'm goin' to look after cattle down on the Huerfano.'

'You are good to me, Steve!' cried Jack, throwing his arms round the cowboy's neck and hugging him. 'I thought you'd save me somehow, an' I do love you so.'

'There! That'll do, young un,' said Steve good-naturedly. 'Go home an' keep quiet, for if that woman gets wind o' our plans, it'll be all up, for she ain't goin' to give up a slavey like you. But, look here! How shall I let you know if he'll take you?' as Jack was turning to go.

He stopped, and after a little more talking it was decided that Steve was to interview the miner on Jack's behalf, and if the man agreed to let the boy go with him to the mountains, Steve was to ride past his father's house the next morning and wave a red handkerchief as a sign of success.

They parted in great spirits, for both were too young to understand what a great undertaking they were contemplating for a little child. Jack had no notion of the distance it was to his parents' new home, and Steve was rather vague about it. Jack's one idea was to start off and find his father and mother somehow.

The next day Mrs. Byrne was in a very bad temper and was a great trial to poor Jack. Nothing he could do was right in her eyes, and being in a state of anxious excitement himself over the result of Steve's mission, he made some trifling blunders which brought swift correction upon him, and many a time his ear tingled from a blow from her hand.

He was busily engaged in washing the kitchen floor when he heard a horse coming rapidly along the dusty road. He knew what it was, and, unable to resist the temptation, he jumped up from his knees and rushed to the door. Unluckily for him, Mrs. Byrne came in from the garden at that moment and met him at the doorway. Seeing him, as she thought, neglecting his work, she seized him by the arm, and pulling him back roughly into the kitchen, said angrily, 'You lazy imp, the moment my back's turned you leave the washin'! I thought your uncle had taught you a lesson two nights ago; an', mark you, I'll give you another hidin' as you'll remember if I catch you shirkin' your work.'

But Jack cared nothing for her threatening words now. In the one glimpse he had got through the doorway he had seen Steve galloping past, and waving in his hand the red handkerchief of success.

Hope sprang high in the boy's heart, and with a bright smile on his face he set to work once more at the dirty floor, scrubbing with a will. Nothing put him out again that day. He carried pail after pail of water through the hot sun without a sigh, although it blistered his hands, for there was a great thought of joy to cheer him on: 'The last time for her!'

When he met Steve in the evening he heard the waggon was to start at daybreak, and Jeff Ralston, the miner, was willing to take him as far as the mountains if he were there in time, but on no consideration would he wait one moment for him.

'I'll be there, never fear!' exclaimed Jack joyfully.

'This Jeff seems a rough, good-natured fellow,' went on Steve, 'an' he'll be kind to you, I guess, if he don't get drunk. He's like my father when he's drunk: he ain't no use at all; but there isn't much to drink on the prairie, so I expect you'll be all right.'

Jack was quite grateful enough to please Steve, although the little boy did not know that his kind-hearted cousin had given the miner some of his own hard-earned dollars to secure his goodwill towards the youthful traveller.

'You'd better get home an' to bed now,' said Steve at last, 'or you'll miss getting up in time. I hope you'll get through safe, Jack, an' perhaps I'll come an' look you up myself some day.'

'Good-bye, Steve; I won't ever forget you, an' I'll tell Father an' Mother how you helped me off to see them,' said Jack gratefully, and after an affectionate farewell the cousins parted.

Jack went to bed directly he got into the house, but never a wink of sleep did he get. He lay quite still for hours, until the deep breathing through the thin partitions told him that the rest of the family were slumbering soundly. Then he arose and dressed himself. Making no noise, and carrying his boots and a blanket which was his own property, he quietly got out of his window, and in a few minutes was hurrying along the road towards the outskirts of the village in the direction of the miners' camp.

'HE GOT OUT OF HIS WINDOW.'

It was a starlight night, which enabled him before very long to make out a big prairie schooner a little way ahead of him, with four horses tethered near by long ropes. Close up under the waggons he saw the figures of two men sleeping on the ground, and not wishing to disturb them, he lay down near them to wait until they awoke. But his long hours of wakefulness had tired him out and he fell asleep.

He was aroused by a stir in camp to find preparations going on for breakfast. He felt chilly from lying on the ground, and was not sorry to see a nice fire of sticks burning near him. A man was putting a kettle of water on to boil, and as Jack rose up and approached him, he welcomed him in a gruff but not unkindly way.

'How do, kid? I reckoned I'd leave you to sleep it out? Are you the young un as Steve Byrne came to inquire about? You want to go along with our outfit as far as the Range, don't you?'

'Yes, please,' answered Jack. 'I'm goin' to my father. He's way over in the San Luis Valley, up on the Cochetopa Creek.'

'Cochetopa Creek!' ejaculated the man. 'Why, boy, that's over two hundred an' fifty miles from here, an' you'll have to cross the "Rockies," too. Say, Lem,' he called out, 'here's an enterprising young un. He's startin' off alone for Cochetopa Creek. What d'you think o' that?'

'He'll never get there,' returned his companion, who had been looking after the horses and came up at that moment.

'You're right, Lem, I do believe,' said the first speaker. 'Just listen to me, boy! A kid like you can never travel so far. Take my advice an' go back to the folks as look after you here.'

'No, I won't,' answered Jack sturdily; 'I've started now, an' I ain't going back for no one. If you won't take me I'll go on an' walk. My father sent for me, but my uncle won't let me go. I guess he shan't stop me now.'

'Well, you're a plucky kid, as sure as my name's Jeff Ralston,' declared the miner.

'How soon is grub to be ready?' asked Lem impatiently. 'I'd better harness up the team while I'm waitin', as we want to get away soon.'

'All right. I'll call you when I've made some oatmeal porridge. Here, kid, go to the waggon an' get out the tin cups an' plates.'

Jack obeyed, and was so quick getting out the things, he pleased Jeff, who remarked to him, when he saw Lem was safe out of earshot: 'Look here! Ye're a sharp lad, an' I'm glad I promised Steve Byrne as I'd do my best for you. All the same, I'm a bit afraid as to how Lem'll take it, for he can't abide kids, an' I haven't told him as you're a-comin' along with us. He's my mate an' a terribly cranky chap.'

'I won't bother him a bit,' cried Jack, delighted to find one of his escort inclined to be so friendly, and hoping to be able in time to please the doubtful Lem too.

Jack confessed to himself he did not like the man's looks at all, and when Jeff at breakfast intimated to him that he intended to take 'the kid' along, he only received a disapproving 'Humph' in return. Jack, distrusting the dark, sullen face, determined to have as little as possible to do with him while he formed one of their party.