“We’ll follow that right fork as far as we can before dark,” quoth Hi. “How’s the water bar’l? Fill her up.”
The Reverend Mr. Baxter sprang to the river bed and with the camp spade dug vigorously. The others took pails and pans and kettles and carried water, as fast as the hole supplied it, to the big cask that, slung fast at the rear of the wagon, formed part of the trail kit.
It was slow work filling this cask through the bung-hole, but Hi kept them at it until the cask was well-nigh running over. By this time dusk was settling, and with a shrewd glance about at the landscape Captain Hi said:
“Unspan, boys. We might as well camp right hyar. But it’s mighty poor grazing for the mules, I tell you!”
XII
PERILS FOR THE HEE-HAWS
Many emigrants had camped here, evidently. The grass had been eaten off for several acres around, and Davy roamed in a circle of a quarter of a mile before he had gleaned enough buffalo chips for the supper fire.
“Better get enough for breakfast, too, Dave,” warned Mr. Baxter, the cook, with a weather-wise eye cocked at the horizon. “Hear the thunder? We’re liable to be soaked and so will the chips.”
Buffalo chips when dry were fine, quick, hot fuel; but when wet they were hopeless, like soggy paste-board. Mr. Baxter’s warning had been well founded, for the air was heavy and warmish, and from some distant point echoed the rumble of a storm.