My road to Sunk Creek lay in no straight line. By rail I diverged northwest to Fort
Meade, and thence, after some stay with the kind military people, I made my way on a
horse. Up here in the Black Hills it sluiced rain most intolerably. The horse and I enjoyed
the country and ourselves but little; and when finally I changed from the saddle into a
stage-coach, I caught a thankful expression upon the animal's face, and returned the same.
"Six legs inside this jerky to-night?" said somebody, as I climbed the wheel. "Well, we'll
give thanks for not havin' eight," he added cheerfully. "Clamp your mind on to that,
Shorty." And he slapped the shoulder of his neighbor. Naturally I took these two for old
companions. But we were all total strangers. They told me of the new gold excitement at
Rawhide, and supposed it would bring up the Northern Pacific; and when I explained the
millions owed to this road's German bondholders, they were of opinion that a German
would strike it richer at Rawhide. We spoke of all sorts of things, and in our silence I
gloated on the autumn holiday promised me by Judge Henry. His last letter had said that
an outfit would be starting for his ranch from Billings on the seventh, and he would have
a horse for me. This was the fifth. So we six legs in the jerky travelled harmoniously on
over the rain-gutted road, getting no deeper knowledge of each other than what our
outsides might imply.
Not that we concealed anything. The man who had slapped Shorty introduced himself
early. "Scipio le Moyne, from Gallipolice, Ohio," he said. "The eldest of us always gets
called Scipio. It's French. But us folks have been white for a hundred years." He was
limber and light-muscled, and fell skilfully about, evading bruises when the jerky reeled
or rose on end. He had a strange, long, jocular nose, very wary-looking, and a bleached
blue eye. Cattle was his business, as a rule, but of late he had been "looking around
some," and Rawhide seemed much on his brain. Shorty struck me as "looking around"
also. He was quite short, indeed, and the jerky hurt him almost every time. He was light-
haired and mild. Think of a yellow dog that is lost, and fancies each newcomer in sight is
going to turn out his master, and you will have Shorty.
It was the Northern Pacific that surprised us into intimacy. We were nearing Medora. We
had made a last arrangement of our legs. I lay stretched in silence, placid in the
knowledge it was soon to end. So I drowsed. I felt something sudden, and, waking, saw
Scipio passing through the air. As Shorty next shot from the jerky, I beheld smoke and
the locomotive. The Northern Pacific had changed its schedule. A valise is a poor
companion for catching a train with. There was rutted sand and lumpy, knee-high grease
wood in our short cut. A piece of stray wire sprang from some hole and hung caracoling
about my ankle. Tin cans spun from my stride. But we made a conspicuous race. Two of
us waved hats, and there was no moment that some one of us was not screeching. It
meant twenty-four hours to us.
Perhaps we failed to catch the train's attention, though the theory seems monstrous. As it
moved off in our faces, smooth and easy and insulting, Scipio dropped instantly to a
