“Wait till you strike the wust of it,” answered Jim.
“Somebody’s broken down ahead, hasn’t he?” queried the Reverend Mr. Baxter.
“Looks so. We’ll go on and make camp there, anyway, and see,” directed Captain Hi.
The trail had veered apart from the Smoky Hill Fork and was cutting through a wide, flat bottom-land, grown to short buffalo grass and a few cottonwood trees. In the midst of the stretch was a “prairie schooner,” halted, its white hood just visible in the gathering dusk. Lonely enough it looked, too—solitary there with not another token of human life near it. It did not have even a camp-fire.
In the twilight the Hee-Haw Express drew upon it and halted also. The owner of the wagon was sitting on the tongue, smoking an old clay pipe.
“Howdy, strangers?” he greeted, coolly.
“Howdy,” they responded; and suddenly Billy nudged Davy and pointed to the wagon hood.
“Pike’s Peak or Bust!” said the one sign; and under that had been added: “Busted, by Thunder!”
“What’s the matter, pardner? Stuck?” asked Captain Hi.
The man jerked his thumb toward the wagon hood.