June 6th. With a good Samaritan.

While waiting for our things to dry, the day after the experience in the grader’s camp, we visited our host and his family, who were shocked at the dangers we had encountered unarmed. The eldest son brought out a sharp lath hatchet, through the handle of which a hole had been bored and a stout leather loop attached to slip over the hand. This he handed to Dan with the remark that while it could hardly be called a deadly weapon, it would do good execution in case of trouble and at the same time be useful in making camp. Little did I think, as Dan thanked him heartily and strapped it on the wheel, how soon that hatchet would prove the means of saving my life.

Later in the day we reached the railroad and that night camped in a ravine. The next day dawned hot and clear. Mile after mile we trudged down the track, for the roads were still too wet for riding. Houses were scarce and stood far away from our course; there were no streams near or other places to obtain drinking water. Our thirst increased as the day wore on, and when at last we saw a farmhouse in a group of trees some half mile from the track, Dan suggested that I remain with the bicycle while he crossed the several pastures that lay between and brought back a kettle of water. So I sat beside the wheel on the edge of the embankment while Dan climbed the fence and disappeared in the trees.

In a few minutes a dreadful commotion arose from the direction of the farmhouse. A great, roaring voice was booming like a cannon.

“Get out!... ornery hide. You....” Inarticulate outcries and oaths mingled with scattered words and phrases.

I listened appalled. I knew the attitude that some farmers maintained towards tramps, and I trembled for Dan’s safety. The racket increased in violence. I became frantic and determined to go to the rescue. Unstrapping the hatchet from the handle bars, I slipped the thong about my wrist and plunged under the railroad fence and across the field, determined to take a short cut to the scene of combat. Worming a difficult passage through a barbed wire fence, I came to a black, sluggish creek or strip of mud perhaps eight feet wide, bordered by a thick row of trees, whose branches hung low over the surface. An extremely stout barbed wire fence stretched at right angles across this stream and joined a similar fence on the farther bank. I paused on the brink, for the black, slimy surface was repellent. The outcries redoubled and from where I stood whole sentences became intelligible.

“Come on now, you... son of a gun! Get out of that gate, you. Oh, if I could only reach you with a club. I’ll shoot your hide full of holes in about a minute.”

I gazed anxiously up and down. My only course was to wade across. Grasping the hatchet firmly, I swung my arms, made a little run, a jump and plunged in. Down, down I sank, deeper and deeper. I laboured furiously to reach the further bank, but my struggles only increased the rapidity with which I sank. The thick, black slime rose higher and higher about me. I tried to scream, but my parched lips could utter no sound. We have no quicksands or sloughs in my home country, but I have read of such places and heard of horses and cattle and sometimes human beings going down, never to be seen again. I thought of Dan escaping from the farmer and returning to find the abandoned wheel. Of his wife, there would be no trace. My end would always remain a mystery. As the black mud sucked me down, I could imagine it rising to my chin, my lips, my nostrils. I could picture the inky surface closing over my head, shutting out the sunlight forever.

In a frenzy, I threw my arms above my head. The blade of the hatchet caught over a bough. Cautiously I pulled. It held firm. A gleam of hope illumined my dark despair. Grasping the handle with my left hand, I tried to lift myself out, but the slough refused to give up its victim so easily. The blade slipped a little. My heart seemed to leap from my body. My senses reeled. Fiercely I called on all my forces of reason, will and self-control.

Placing just enough weight on the hatchet handle to prevent my sinking deeper, I studied the situation calmly. My one hope lay in securing a firm hold on the large branch above.

Little by little I began to spring the smaller shoot up and down. Harder and harder I pulled on the hatchet, at the same time forcing the blade firmly over the limb. The leaves swung closer and closer. Emboldened, I worked harder than ever. At last I was able to abandon my hold on the hatchet and secure a firm grip with both hands on the tough wood.

But the slough dragged me down with a grip like an octopus. A ton weight pulled at each foot, my skirt seemed grasped by a thousand clutching hands. And then I gave thanks for my broad shoulders, and for the violent exercise of steering the tandem, which had developed the sturdy muscles of my hands and arms. Slowly, slowly I made headway against the treacherous depths; slowly, slowly, the vicious grip was broken, till with a gasp of relief I dragged myself out upon the bank.

I sank down exhausted.

Then from the farmhouse the undiminished sounds of conflict forced themselves into my consciousness and suddenly I burned with a reckless berserk rage against the whole world.

Springing to my feet, I hurled myself upon the barbed wire fence that crossed the slough, and clinging with hands and feet to the thorny strands, edged my way across. Skirt and stockings were torn in a dozen places. My heavy coils of hair slipped down. My hands bled profusely. Forcing my way through the second fence, I started across the meadow. As I rounded a clump of bushes a large red bull, with head to ground and pawing hoof, barred my way. But I was far past caring for such as he.

Snatching up a stick, I began clapping wood and hatchet together and charged directly at his lordship. He stood his ground till the hatchet was almost touching his nose, then, with a bellow of fear, turned tail and raced across the field with me in close pursuit. Gaining the fence, I tumbled over and arrived panting at the back of the farmhouse.

In a beautiful kitchen garden a farmer stood as though rooted to the ground with amazement at my grotesque appearance, as with hands and face streaked with blood, clothing in shreds and bedraggled with mud, I stood before him with a club in one hand and a hatchet in the other.

Eyes bulging, nostrils flaming, tail in air, a fine bull calf was careering madly among the vegetables.

“Wh—wh—why, my good Lord, woman,” began the man as he recovered his breath. “What’s happened to you? Where in the world did you drop from?”

“Where is my husband? What have you done to him?” I demanded hotly.

“Well, now. Let me see.” He scratched his head perplexedly. “Seems like I recall a man askin’ for a bucket o’ water something like a half hour back. Might he be your man now? I was so plum frantic with this here pesky calf, that I didn’t pay no attention to the man.”

“But who were you going to shoot?” I persisted. “I could hear you swearing clear over to the railroad.”

“Sho, now. Is that so? ’Scuse me. I’m plum bad about swearin’. Wife, she’s after me all the time, too,” he apologised. “Now, the wife’s right set on her posies, and this here —— calf—’scuse me, seems like I just can’t stop cussin’—got in and trompled ’em all down, and while I was a trying my darndest to get him out, I’ll be damned if he didn’t bust through into the vegetables and cavort all over them.”

Meanwhile, the innocent cause of the commotion had taken advantage of the lull in the storm to make his escape from the garden.

“You didn’t get in the slough, did ye?” continued the farmer, eyeing my skirt. “Didn’t ye see all them fences? We had so much trouble with the stock gettin’ in the —— hole—’scuse me, beats the devil how those words will come apopping out—that we fenced her all in. But what gets me is how ye come to get past that bull ’thout being gored to death. He’s turrible dangerous. That’s why we got all them high fences about. Kill’t two men, he did, ’fore I got him. Bought him cheap, but the wife just raises a hell of a row—’scuse me—at keepin’ him.”

I asked for water, for my thirst was intense, and after drinking deep from the dripping dipper and washing off the worst of the blood and dirt, I followed the farmer to the main road, where he pointed out a short cut to the railroad.

There I found Dan rushing frantically about, for having found the wheel with the hatchet gone, he felt sure I had been kidnapped.

It seems that he had gone to the house, found the farmer chasing the calf, secured the water, then thinking it would be difficult to carry the kettle through the fences, tried another route and got on the wrong road. Before he could find the right path and return, I was in the slough.

We slept that night in a tumble-down shed—or rather, Dan did. Each time I dropped to sleep, I could feel myself sinking in the slough, and would wake up with a start.

Next day we rode a good deal and covered a long stretch of territory. The country was flat and uninteresting and my strained muscles occupied most of my attention as I tried to confine the rebellious wheel to the smoother stretches.

At noon we pitched camp near the railroad track and had the meal well under way when a passenger train pulled out of a station a mile or two ahead and thundered toward us.

“Look,” exclaimed Dan. “What’s the matter there? The train is going to stop.”

Sure enough, it was losing speed. People were thrusting their heads from windows while the fireman was looking back at a group of men on the blind end of the baggage car. Just as it ranged alongside us, a small figure catapulted from the platform and rolled almost to our feet. The train gathered way and sped on.

I rushed forward and fell on my knees beside a grimy, tattered boy of some twelve years, who was clutching his fiery red head in both hands and cursing like a pirate. Blood was spurting from a deep jagged gash in his left wrist, which he had struck against the projecting fragment of a broken bottle in his descent. I seized his arm and applied pressure to control the hemorrhage. He fixed me with an uncomprehending glare. Then his eyes fell on his dripping arm.

“Oh, Lord,” he gasped, “oh, Lord, I’m bleedin’ to death—I’m goin’ to die. Oh, Ma, Ma.”

“Nonsense, kid, you won’t die. That blood looks a lot worse than it is. Just be a good boy and hold still for a few minutes and I’ll fix you all safe. Quick, Dan. Hand me that kettle of boiling water. Now, unpack my emergency case.”

By the time Dan had the kit unpacked and contents laid out the water had cooled enough for use. I cleansed and sterilised the wound, tied the artery, and soon had the arm bandaged in scientific fashion. The boy had made no sound, but gazed in fascination at the shining little instruments, the vials of antiseptics and rolls of gauze.

“You see, this case proved useful after all,” I remarked to Dan as I gathered up the implements. “If such things are needed at all, they usually are needed badly. This boy would have bled to death without proper attention.”

At my words the lad burst into tears. “The —— sons of ——” he sobbed. “They all jumped me at once. They wouldn’t let me alone. I wasn’t doin’ no harm. It—it don’t cost the old railroad nothin’ if I do ride the blind. I want to go home. I want to go ho—ome.” Tears washed pallid channels down his sooty cheeks.

“Do you think you can take a little nourishment, young man?” queried Dan as he busied himself with the meal.

The boy checked his sobs. “I dunno what that is, but I kin eat any old kind of chuck. You just try me once and I’ll show you. I ain’t had nothin’ but one little old hunk of bread in two days.”

“Well, take this pan of water and see if you can remove some of that make-up from your manly countenance and then pitch into the grub. I’ll die of starvation myself if I don’t eat soon.”

I set another kettle of water to boil for tea, and we all fell to with avidity.

“Say, I made good time last night,” the boy volunteered, as he finished his third helping of canned beans and bread. “Rode the Overland Limited. Gee whiz, but she does burn up the rails. If I only could a stuck, I’d been home to-morrow. But those boneheads chucked me off this morning. Then I landed that old hearse they thrown me off of just now. Suppose I’ll have to hoof it till night.”

“Why don’t you catch a freight? You wouldn’t be nearly so likely to get into trouble.”

“Huh, a freight! Me? Not on your life! What do you think I am, a dead one? I’m a live guy, I am. No bundle stiff about me. Say, do you know, I’ve beat it clear from northern Wyoming. I’ve been workin’ a long time there as a cowboy on a great big cattle ranch. Say, that’s the life.”

“Seems to me you’re travelling in the wrong direction for a cowboy,” I observed. “The cattle ranges all lie west of here, and you’re heading east. How does that happen?”

“Well, you see, Ma she wants to see me, so I thought I’d make a short trip home. Me and the old man had a falling out, and I beat it west. Say, do you know, he expected me to milk two cows, milk ’em and feed ’em and wait on ’em hand and foot. No fun nor nothin’. And weed the garden! Say, I bet you never saw as big a garden as we got—great long rows—and say, I bet you never saw weeds grow as fast as ours do—big, tall weeds. But Ma wants to see me, so I gotta go home.”

“Did your mother write to you to come?” I enquired gravely.

“No, she didn’t write. I’ve never stayed very long in one place so I never wrote to tell her where I was.”

“Oh, my! She must be terribly worried about you. How long have you been away?”

“Why, let’s see—it must be nearly six weeks now since I beat it. I met a gang of hoboes the first day I was out and they took me right along with ’em to northern Wyoming. Say, that’s a great country, all right, all right. But, of course, when Ma wanted to see me I had to leave.

“I tell you where’s a bad town you gotta fight shy of. That’s little old Cheyenne. There’s a gun man there, Jeff Farr’s his name. Say, he shoots a Bo for breakfast every mornin’. You folks want to watch out when you go through. They run you in for nothin’ at all. I met a nigger just the other side o’ there. Say, he was runnin’ in circles like a fitty cat. They had chucked his pal in the can just for nothin’ at all—vag charge maybe—and no tellin’ when he’d get out, and here’s this poor coon, can’t go off and leave his pard, can’t find work, can’t get nothin’ to eat, can’t do a thing in the world but chase around and bawl. Say, I felt awful sorry for that poor coon.”

We raided our scanty stores to pack a lunch for the boy. I instructed him in the care of his wound, described the location of various houses along the road where I knew by experience he would be sure to find help, gave him a little note of recommendation and explanation to use when applying for assistance, then started him on the way to his waiting mother.

Just at sundown we came to the town of Wood River, a place I am destined to remember. Storm clouds were piling on the horizon as Dan hurried to the shop to buy some meat for supper. While he was gone, some Greeks approached and with much gesticulation endeavoured to explain something to me. I gathered an idea of trouble of some kind, but exactly what they were driving at I was unable to determine.

We camped on the outskirts of the village, and had hardly finished our simple meal when gusts of wind and great drops of rain proclaimed the coming of the storm. We looked anxiously about for shelter. There were no barns near, but not far from the railroad track stood a house in process of construction, and while doors and windows were lacking, the roof and outside walls gave promise of sufficient protection. To this we hurried and lifted the wheel onto the veranda just as a flood of rain burst upon us. After a little search we found some nail kegs and sat down in the front room. We were dozing when footsteps sounded on the porch. I strained my eyes, but could see nothing in the pitchy blackness.

Suddenly a light flashed in my face, the cold muzzle of a pistol pressed my temple, and a hand gripped my arm.

“Get up there. None of your tricks now,” snarled a harsh voice.

The flash was turned on Dan, who was ordered to throw up his hands by a second man, who flourished a revolver in his left hand. We stumbled to our feet, dazed by the unexpectedness of it all.

“You’re under arrest. Better come quietly,” growled the first man gruffly.

Dan tried to explain that we had only taken shelter from the storm and had no intention of doing any damage, but was savagely ordered to shut up. Grasping me tightly by the arm, the first fellow led the way out of the building and down the road to the village.

Arrived at a tiny, wooden shanty, the man unlocked the door and crowded us in. They slammed and bolted the door behind us and we heard their footsteps retreating up the walk. As we stood, too bewildered to move, a match flared in the darkness and in a moment the feeble rays of a candle revealed the interior of the lock-up. It consisted of a single room, partially divided by a partition, and containing two bunks. On one of these sprawled a man, while a big negro held aloft the guttering candle end. At sight of a woman the recumbent man sprang to his feet and courteously bade us good evening. Without further ado or questioning, he removed his hat and coat from the bunk where he had been lying and suggested that we make ourselves as comfortable as circumstances would permit.

At once the negro blew out the candle with the remark that we might need it before morning.

As we settled ourselves as best we might in the darkness, flashes of lightning revealed the dimensions of the one small, barred window, which furnished all ventilation to the unfortunates within. Furniture, drinking water or conveniences were utterly lacking and my flesh crawled at the thought of the straw-covered bunk on which we must rest in the confined space.

Hardly had we lain down, when the door was opened and a fifth person was hustled in. Again the negro lit his candle stub, and we saw that the newcomer was a boy of not more than sixteen years.

The officers had paused just outside the window and one remarked that it was time to go home. There were no occupied buildings near the jail and I could not help but consider what our fate would be should lightning strike the flimsy wooden shack or a fire start from match or candle. When I realised that I was locked within those constricting walls, it seemed that they were crowding in and smothering me. I wanted to scream, to beat my hands against the bars, but reason forbade. I settled down and strove to cultivate the non-resisting attitude of our cell mates, but my mind kept busy with the wonders of our boasted American civilisation that permits such occurrences as this. I thought of the churches throughout the land—no doubt there was one in this very community—and of the teachings of One who had no place to lay His head.

“I was a stranger and ye took me not in... sick, and in prison and ye visited me not.”

How many of the good people of the nation have ever even so much as thought of visiting those cast into their barbaric prisons?

At sunrise our jailers returned, unlocked the door and set us free. There was no charge against us and no legal formalities to go through apparently. Retrieving the wheel, we hastened out of town.

Beside a small house some miles away we stopped to get water for breakfast. A motherly woman came to talk to us. Hearing of our recent experiences, she took us into her home, provided us with hot baths, and sent us to bed while she cleaned and sterilised our contaminated apparel. Completely exhausted, I slept the clock around and woke next morning to find my clothing, clean and neatly mended, piled on a chair at the bedside. So, thanks to our good Samaritan, we are able to go forward with renewed strength and courage.