Tears of vexation so blinded me that I could scarcely see to turn the team, but ominous sounds and wild yells kept coming from the house, so I made what haste I could to get away from such an unpleasant neighborhood.  Soon my spirits began to rise.  Kate Higbee, I reflected, was likely to prove to be an interesting person.  All Westerners are likable, with the possible exception of Greasy Pete.  I rather looked forward to my visit.  But my guide had failed to mention the buttes; so, although I jogged as west as I knew how, I found I had to wind around a butte about ever so often.  I crossed a ravine with equal frequency, and all looked alike.  It is not surprising that soon I could not guess where I was.  We could turn back and retrace our tracks, but actual danger lay there; so it seemed wiser to push on, as there was, perhaps, no greater danger than discomfort ahead.  The sun hung like a big red ball ready to drop into the hazy distance when we came clear of the buttes and down on to a broad plateau, on which grass grew plentifully.  That encouraged me because the horses need not suffer, and if I could make the scanty remnant of our lunch do for the children’s supper and breakfast, we could camp in comfort, for we had blankets.  But we must find water.  I stood up in the wagon and, shading my eyes against the sun’s level light, was looking out in the most promising directions when I noticed that the plateau’s farther side was bounded by a cedar ridge, and, better yet, a smoke was slowly rising, column-like, against the dun prospect.  That, I reasoned, must be my destination.  Even the horses livened their paces, and in a little while we were there.

But no house greeted our eyes,—­just a big camp-fire.  A lean old man sat on a log-end and surveyed us indifferently.  On the ground lay a large canvas-covered pack, apparently unopened.  An old saddle lay up against a cedar-trunk.  Two old horses grazed near.  I was powerfully disappointed.  You know misery loves company; so I ventured to say, “Good-evening.”  He didn’t stir, but he grunted, “Hello.”  I knew then that he was not a fossil, and hope began to stir in my heart.  Soon he asked, “Are you goin’ somewheres or jist travelin’?” I told him I had started somewhere, but reckoned I must be traveling, as I had not gotten there.  Then he said, “My name is Hiram K. Hull.  Whose woman are you?” I confessed to belonging to the house of Stewart.  “Which Stewart?” he persisted,—­“C.R., S.W., or H.C.?” Again I owned up truthfully.  “Well,” he continued, “what does he mean by letting you gad about in such onconsequential style?”

Sometimes a woman gets too angry to talk.  Don’t you believe that?  No?  Well, they do, I assure you, for I was then.  He seemed grown to the log.  As he had made no move to help me, without answering him I clambered out of the wagon and began to take the horses loose.  “Ho!” he said; “are you goin’ to camp here?” “Yes, I am,” I snapped.  “Have you any objections?” “Oh, no, none that