“Snoozer shall have a pancake medal.”

This was the first thing Ollie and I heard in the morning, and it was Jack’s voice addressing the hero of the night before.  We speedily rolled out, and agreed with Jack that Snoozer must be suitably rewarded, he seemed fully to understand the importance of his action in barking at the right moment, and for the first morning on the whole trip he was up and about, waving his bushy tail with great industry, and occasionally uttering a detached bark, just to remind us of how he had done it.  He walked around the pony several times, and looked at her with a haughty air, as much as to say, “Where would you be now if it hadn’t been for me?”

“He shall have a pancake,” continued Jack—­“the biggest and best pancake which the skilful hand of this cook can concoct.”

Jack proceeded to carry out his promise, and when breakfast was ready presented a griddlecake, all flowing with melted butter, to the dog, which was as big as could be made in the frying-pan.

“I always knew,” said Jack, “that Snoozer would do something some day.  He’s lazy, but he’s got brains.  He would never bark at the moon, because he knows the moon isn’t doing anything wrong, but when it comes to horse-thieves it’s different.”

Snoozer munched his pancake, occasionally stopping to give a grand swing to his tail and let off a little yelp of pure joy.

As we were getting ready for a start, and speculating on the prospect for water, a man came along, riding a mule, and we asked him about it.

[Illustration:  Old “Blenty Vaters”]

“Yah, blenty vaters,” said the man.  “Doan need to dake no vaters along.’

“Any houses on the road?” asked Jack.

“Blenty houses,” answered the stranger “houses, vaters, efferydings.”

We thanked him and started.  Notwithstanding this assurance, I had intended to fill a jug with water, but forgot it, and we went off without a drop.  We were going down what was called the Ridge Road, along the divide between Elk and Elder creeks, and hoped to reach the crossing of the Cheyenne at Smithville Post-office that evening, and get on the Reservation the next morning.  In half an hour we passed some trees which marked the site of the Washday Springs, but there was no house there, nor had we seen one at eleven o’clock.  We met an Indian on foot, and Jack said to him: 

“Where can we get some water?”

The Indian shook his head.  “Cheyenne River,” he replied.

“Isn’t there any this side?”

“No,” with another jerk of the head.  Then he stalked on.

“Yes, and the Indian’s right, I’ll warrant,” exclaimed Jack.  “‘Blenty raters,’ indeed!  Why, that Dutchman doesn’t know enough to ache when he’s hurt.”

“Well, we’re in for it,” said I.  “We can’t go back.  Maybe it’ll rain,” though there was not a cloud in sight, and there was more danger of an earthquake than of a shower.