But Horn had
to take the risk. The oxen were tired, the wagons had to be greased,
and it was needful to kill meat. Here was an abundance of grass, a
clear brook, wood for camp-fires, and sign of game on all sides.
"Haul round--make a circle!" Horn ordered the drivers of the oxen.
This was the first time he had given this particular order, and the
men guffawed or grinned as they hauled the great, clumsy prairie-
schooners into a circle. The oxen were unhitched; the camp duffle
piled out; the ring of axes broke the stillness; fires were started.
Horn took his rifle and strode away up the brook to disappear in the
green brush of a ravine.
It was early in the evening, with the sun not yet out of sight
behind a lofty ridge that topped the valley slope. High grass,
bleached white, shone brightly on the summit. Soon several columns
of blue smoke curled lazily aloft until, catching the wind high up,
they were swept away. Meanwhile the men talked at their tasks.
"Say, pard, did you come along this here Laramie Trail goin' West?"
asked one.
"Nope. I hit the Santa Fe Trail," was the reply.
"How about you, Jones?"
"Same fer me."
"Wal," said another, "I went round to California by ship, an' I'd
hev been lucky to drown."
"An' now we're all goin' back poorer than when we started," remarked
a third.
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