The Goodland republic. [volume] (Goodland, Kan.) 1891-1907, 1895-11-22

pause, but plunged through the freez-
ing river, dragging in his wake the
front wheels and myself, the remnant
Of his disintegrated load, until we
reached the sandy shore opposite.
Then, for a wonder, he stopped. Not
such wonder, either, for to drag by
the bit through the soft sand such a
dead weight as was enough to stop
even Chesapeake. I, more dead than
alive, lay stretched out, a bedraggled,
nerYeless object.
The cattle didn't go into the river at
all. Whether my pistol shot halted
them or whether the watery channel
had turned their course, I could not
say. But the fact is that when I stood
again On my feet there they were, bel
lowing and tossing their horns, on the
bank, and as I watched them by some
unknown signal they turned and started
with one impulse back as they had
come, heads down and tails up, not
nearly so terrifying a sight, now that
that they we're going away as fast as
they could run.
I was naturally uncomfortable, but
did't know just how to improve my
situation at once.
Why didn't I make a fire and dry my
self? I have heard of burning sand.
They have it in Africa, but this wasn't
that kind. My teeth chartered a little
accompaniment to the tenor of my
thoughts, and the water dripped off my
garments and made a puddle around
my feet, so that had to move at inter
walls to keep from getting any wetter,
while Chesapeake stood idly by, waiting
for something to turn up, the buck
board, probably, and wondering if it
wasn't almost time for lunch and pie.
"This is Thanksgiving" said I to my
equine companion, as spat some sand
sut of my mouth. Turkey? Cranberry
sauce? Not for your Uncle Smiler this
year. Chesapeake, Well go on, and the
first house we come to, even be it one
room dugOut, there we will spend the
rest of our Thanksgiving and go back
to camp tomorrow. Ny dinner will
consist of sour bread and fat pork with
the bristIes on; yours will be wetstraw."
After this melancholy hOmily, driy-
ing Chesapeake and the front wheels
before me, and postponing the Fescu-
ing of my belongings until some more
favorable time. l started across the
sand and up the low bank. As I reach
ed the summit eagerly cast my eyes
about for the expected dugOut.
What was that 1 saw a mile or so
away? One, two, three windmills rising
out of what looked like a city in the
earlier stages of its growth. There
seemed to be barns and houses and
sheds and cOrrals enough for all the
people and all the cattle in the county.
I cogitated a moment, then an idea-a
pleasant idea-struck me, and ] direct
ed my course toward the newly discov-
cred goal. "This, I said, by way of ex-
PLANTATION TO Chesapeake, lis Birch's
ranch we hear so much about. We're
right in one of his pastures now, and !
didn't have sense enough to know it.
This was evidently satisfactory TO Ches-
apeake, for be pricked up his ears and
moved on at good gait. Perhaps he
smelled pie.
Birch was indeed a we'll known name
in that part of the country. His ranch,
the largest anywhere around, embraced
thousands Of acres Of fertile prairie,
over which roamed myriads Of cattle.
His beautiful residence in Hays had
frequently seen and had heard the
widest accounts Of the elegance Of his
rural home.
"We shall see thought ], whether
or not I shall get the entree to his Sc
lect circle. I don't suppose 1 do look
very inviting.
tied my long-sUHering quadruped
50 fence post, and with JOY in my
heart and ice water il my boots passed
up the walk to thelargest Of the houses
a big. square, buff coiored structure
with broad Piszzas, which at another
season might nave been describes as
inviting.
sPlease tell Nr. Birch I would like to
T sss him, I said to the housemsid Who
answered my vigorous ring at the bell
sWslk in. sir vas the response, and
/ was conducted into a little Office or
reception rogm where blazsd cheer
ful fire. It certainly did feel good 10
get close TO that Gre I took Of the
rest Of my gloves, and nnsying nay scarf
removed my hat. I unbuttoDed my
costs and allowed the grateful warmth
o penetrate the rest 81 my gsEments