TOM AND his new acquaintance spent a day at the little settlement where they passed the night. Tom was fortunate enough to buy a horse for forty-two dollars, and he also provided himself with a rifle and a few things which Mr. Brush told him were necessary for the long trip they had in view.

Whenever he thought of the change he had made in companions he congratulated himself. He had found no pleasure in Burnett’s society, even before he had found out his treachery. The salary he was to receive was his only inducement. Now he had relinquished all salary, and must defray his entire expenses without help, but he felt assured that, should he become penniless, his honest friend Brush would not desert him. So, with a bold heart he set out upon his long journey.

I do not propose to give a daily record of the journeyings of the two companions, as they followed the Pacific Trail. The journey was monotonous enough. So many miles daily, the number varying according to the state of the road, if such a name can be given to the path they were following, camping for the night and resuming travel the next day.

It was so monotonous that they almost forgot the days of the week.

Let us look in upon the pair four weeks later. During that time they had made about five hundred miles.

“Tom,” said Peter Brush, as they rode side by side over a broad, rolling prairie, “this is lonely, isn’t it? For all we can see we are the only people living in the world. There isn’t a house, nor a clearing, nor the smoke of a chimney, anywhere in sight.”

“That is so, Mr. Brush.”

“Seems to me, Tom, you are lookin’ rather sober. Is there anything a weighin’ on your mind?”

“Yes, Mr. Brush, I was thinking of my mother and sister.”

“Then if you are thinkin’ of them, you ought to look cheerful. If I had a mother and sister to think of I’d give a thousand dollars down, though I am a poor man.”

“You don’t quite understand me, Mr. Brush. How do I know that they are well? They may be sick, or dead,” and our hero’s lip quivered.

“Don’t go to borrering trouble, Tom. It ain’t no use. I’ll bet you a dollar they’re well, and as lively as crickets.”

“If I only knew that! But there isn’t any chance of my writing to them, or hearing from them, in this great wilderness.”

“That’s so, Tom. There don’t seem to be any post-offices near by, that’s a fact.”

“I am afraid mother will worry about me, when she has to go so long without getting a letter. She’ll think I’m either sick or dead.” “I don’t b’lieve she will. She will trust to Providence, that is, if she’s a religious woman, and goes to church, as most mothers do.”

“My mother is the best woman in the world!” said Tom, warmly.

“I don’t doubt it—not a mite. She’s got a pretty good son, and when you see a good son you’ll generally find he has a good mother.”

“I am glad you have so good an opinion of me, Mr. Brush, but I’m afraid I don’t deserve it.”

“Suppose we argy that point.”

“Never mind,” said Tom, smiling, “I’m perfectly willing you should think so. How soon do you think I can write a letter home?”

“There’s a place about a hundred miles further on. We’ll get there within a week. When you get there, you can write a long letter.”

“I will; I will try to make up for lost time. I shall have a great deal to write.”

“So you will, Tom.”

“Sha’n’t you write, too, Mr. Brush?”

“I haven’t got anybody to write to,” answered Peter Brush.

“There’s your boy.”

“I never writ a letter to him in my life. Fact is, Tom, I ain’t much on writin’; I can handle a rifle a good deal better than a pen. My boy doesn’t expect a letter from me.”

“It seems to me if my father were away traveling, I should want to hear from him.” “I reckon you would, but there’s a difference in families. Ours isn’t a writin’ family.”

“When did you see your boy last?”

“Only a few weeks ago.”

“And when do you expect to see him again?”

“In a year, likely, if things come round right. He’s all right, and got good care taken of him, so there’s no use worryin’. Your mother’s well fixed, too, isn’t she?”

“Yes, I suppose she’s very comfortable. She is keeping house for a rich farmer, and wants for nothing.”

“Then, don’t you go to borrering trouble.”

Just then the two friends heard a steady tramp behind, as if another horseman were on their track.

Peter Brush looked round, and his curiosity seemed to be excited.

“Tom,” said he, “look round. There’s a queer-lookin’ critter on our track.”