ON awaking the next morning, the boys found themselves surrounded by new scenes. While they were dressing, they looked out at the window, and obtained their first view of a wagon train, which was just starting out for the prairie. The wagons were protected by canvas covers, some drawn by oxen, others by mules, and the entire train being accompanied by men both on foot and on horseback. Fat, sleek cows followed meekly after the wagons, from behind whose covering peeped the faces of women and children—the families of the hardy pioneers now on their way to find new homes amid the solitude of that western region.

The boys watched the train until it disappeared, and then went down stairs to get their breakfast. Uncle James was not to be found. In fact, ever since leaving Portland, he seemed to have forgotten his promise to his brother, for he never bothered his head about his nephews. It is true, he had watched them rather closely at the beginning of the journey, but soon discovered that they were fully capable of taking care of themselves and the trapper besides. He did not make his appearance until nearly two hours after the boys had finished their breakfast, and then he rode up to the hotel mounted on a large, raw-boned, ugly-looking horse. He was followed by the trapper, who was seated in a covered wagon, drawn by a span of mules, while behind the wagon were two more horses, saddled and bridled.

“Now, then, boys,” said Uncle James, as he dismounted and tied his horse to a post, “where’s your baggage? We’re going with that train that went out this morning.”

“An’ here, youngsters,” exclaimed Dick, as he climbed down out of his wagon, “come an’ take your pick of these two hosses. This one,” he continued, pointing to a small, gray horse, which stood impatiently pawing the ground and tossing his head—“this feller is young and foolish yet. He don’t know nothin’ ’bout the prairy or buffaler huntin’; an’ if whoever gets him should undertake to shoot a rifle while on his back, he would land him on the ground quicker nor lightnin’. I ’spect I shall have to larn him a few lessons. But this one”—laying his hand on the other horse, which stood with his head down and his eyes closed, as if almost asleep—“he’s an ole buffaler hunter. The feller that your uncle bought him of has jest come in from the mountains. He can travel wusser nor a steamboat if you want him to, an’ you can leave him on the prairy any whar an’ find him when you come back. Now, youngster,” he added, turning to Frank, “which’ll you have?”

“I have no choice,” replied Frank. “Which one do you want, Archie?”

“Well,” replied the latter, “I’d rather have the buffalo hunter. He looks as though he hadn’t spirit enough to throw a fellow off, but that gray looks rather vicious.”

“Wal, then, that’s settled,” said the trapper; “so fetch on your plunder, an’ let’s be movin’ to onct.”

Their baggage, which consisted of three trunks—small, handy affairs, capable of holding a considerable quantity of clothing, but not requiring much space—was stowed away in the wagon. When Uncle James had paid their bill at the hotel, they mounted their horses, and the trapper, who now began to feel more at home, took his seat in the wagon, and drove after the train. Archie soon began to think that he had shown considerable judgment in the selection of his horse, for they had not gone far before the gray began to show his temper. After making several attempts to turn his head toward home—a proceeding which Frank successfully resisted—he began to dance from one side of the street to the other, and ended by endeavoring to throw his rider over his head; but the huge Spanish saddle, with its high front and back, afforded him a secure seat; and after receiving a few sharp thrusts from Frank’s spurs, the gray quietly took his place by the side of Archie’s horse, and walked along as orderly and gentle as could be wished.

The trapper, who was now the chief man of the party, had superintended the buying of their outfit, and, although it was a simple one, they were still well provided with every necessary article. The boys were dressed in complete suits of blue jeans, an article that will resist wear and dirt to the last extremity, broad-brimmed hats, and heavy horseman’s boots, the heels of which were armed with spurs.

Their weapons, which were stowed away in the wagon, consisted of a brace of revolvers and a hunting-knife each, and Archie owned a short breech-loading rifle, while Frank had purchased a common “patch” rifle. The wagon also contained provisions in abundance—coffee, corn meal, bacon, and the like—and ammunition for their weapons. Their appearance would have created quite a commotion in the quiet little village of Lawrence, but in St. Joseph such sights were by no means uncommon. Buckskin was much more plenty than broadcloth, and the people who passed them on the streets scarcely noticed them.

At length, just before dark, they overtook the train, which had stopped for the night. The wagons were drawn up on each side of the road, and altogether the camp presented a scene that was a pleasant one to men wearied with their day’s journey. Cattle were feeding quietly near the wagons, chickens cackled joyously from their coops, men and women were busily engaged with their preparations for supper, while groups of noisy children rolled about on the grass, filling the camp with the sounds of their merry laughter.

The trapper drove on until he found a spot suitable for their camp, and then turned off the road and stopped. He at once began to unharness the mules, while the boys, after removing their saddles, fastened their horses to the wagon with a long rope, and allowed them to graze. When the trapper had taken care of his mules, he started a fire, and soon a coffee-pot was simmering and sputtering over the flames, and several slices of bacon were broiling on the coals. After supper, the boys spread their blankets out under the wagon, and, being weary with their day’s ride (for it was something new to them), soon fell asleep.

The next morning, when they awoke it was just daylight. After drawing on their boots, they crawled out from under the wagon, and found the trapper, standing with his hat off, and his long arms extended as if about to embrace some invisible object.

“I tell you what, youngsters,” said he, as the boys approached; “if this aint nat’ral; jest take a sniff of that ar fresh air! Here,” he continued, looking about him with a smile of satisfaction—“here, I know all ’bout things. I’m to hum now. Thar’s nothin’ on the prairy that Dick Lewis can’t ’count fur. But, youngsters, I wouldn’t travel on them ar steamboats an’ railroads ag’in fur all the beaver in the Missouri River. Every thing in them big cities seemed to say to me, ‘Dick, you haint got no business here.’ Them black walls an’ stone roads; them rumblin’ carts an’ big stores, war sights I never seed afore, an’ I never want to see ’em ag’in. I know I was treated mighty kind, an’ all that; but it couldn’t make me feel right. I didn’t like them streets, windin’ an’ twistin’ about, an’ allers loosin’ a feller; an’ I wasn’t to hum. But now, youngsters, I know what I’m doin’. Nobody can’t lose Dick Lewis on the prairy. I know the names of all the streets here; an’, ’sides, I know whar they all lead to. An’ as fur varmints, thar’s none of ’em that I haint trapped an’ fit. An’ Injuns! I know a leetle ’bout them, I reckon. It’s funny that them ar city chaps don’t know nothin’ ’bout what’s goin’ on out here; an’ it shows that all the larnin’ in the world aint got out o’ books. Send one of ’em here, an’ I could show him a thing or two he never heern tell on. But I must be gettin’ breakfast, ’cause we’ll be off ag’in soon; an’ on the prairy every feller has to look out fur himself. You can’t pull a ring in the wall here, an’ have a chap with white huntin’ shirt an’ morocker moccasins on come up an’ say: ‘Did you ring, sir?’ An’ how them ar fellers knowed which room to come to in them big hotels, is something I can’t get through my head. Thar’s no big bell to call a feller to grub here. Take one of them city chaps an’ give him a rifle, an’ pint out over the prairy an’ tell him to go an’ hunt up his breakfast, an’ how would he come out? Could he travel by the sun, or tell the pints of the compass by the stars? Could he lasso an’ ride a wild mustang, or shoot a Injun plumb atween the eyes at two hundred an’ fifty yards? No! I reckon not! Wal, thar’s a heap o’ things I couldn’t do; an’ it shows that every man had oughter stick to his own business. It’s all owin’ to a man’s bringin’ up.”

While the trapper spoke he had been raking together the fire that had nearly gone out; and having got it fairly started, he began the work of getting breakfast. The boys, after rolling up their blankets and packing them away in the wagon, amused themselves in watching the movements of the emigrants, who now began their preparations for their day’s journey. By the time Uncle James awoke, the trapper pronounced their breakfast ready. After they had done ample justice to the homely meal (and it was astonishing what an appetite the fresh invigorating air of the prairie gave them), the boys packed the cooking utensils away in the wagon while the trapper began to harness the mules. This was an undertaking that a less experienced man would have found to be extremely hazardous, for the animals persisted in keeping their heels toward him, and it was only by skillful maneuvering that Dick succeeded in getting them hitched to the wagon. By the time this was accomplished, Uncle James and the boys had saddled their horses and followed the trapper, who drove off as though he perfectly understood what he was about, leaving the train to follow at its leisure.

Dick acted as if he had again found himself among friends from whom he had long been separated; but it was evident that sorrow was mingled with his joy, for on every side his eye rested on the improvements of civilization. The road was lined with fine, well-stocked farms, and the prairie over which his father had hunted the buffalo and fought the Indian, had been turned up by the plow, and would soon be covered with waving crops. No doubt the trapper’s thoughts wandered into the future, for, as the boys rode up beside the wagon, he said, with something like a sigh:

“Things aint as they used to be, youngsters. I can ’member the time when thar was’nt a fence within miles of here, an’ a feller could go out an’ knock over a buffaler fur breakfast jest as easy as that farmer over thar could find one of his sheep. But the ax an’ plow have made bad work with a fine country, the buffaler an’ Injun have been pushed back t’wards the mountains, an’ it won’t be long afore thar’ll be no room fur sich as me; an’ we won’t be missed neither, ’cause when the buffaler an’ beaver are gone thar’ll be nothin’ fur us to do. These farms will keep pushin’ out all the while; an’ when folks, sittin’ in their snug houses beside their warm fires, hear tell of the Injuns that onst owned this country, nobody will ever think that sich fellers as me an’ Bill Lawson an’ ole Bob Kelly ever lived. If ole Bill was here now, he would say: ‘Let’s go back to the mountains, Dick, an’ stay thar.’ He wouldn’t like to see his ole huntin’ grounds wasted in this way, an’ I don’t want to see it neither. But I know that the Rocky Mountains an’ grizzly bars will last as long as I shall, an’ thar’ll be no need of trappers an’ hunters an’ guides arter that.”

Dick became silent after this, and it was not until the train halted for the noon’s rest, that he recovered his usual spirits.