"Oh, you're the boys from the Big Blue, are you? I might have guessed. I've heard about you."
"Have you?" responded Terry, curious.
"Yes. Sol Judy rode through last night and told me to keep an eye out for you; but you seem able to take care of yourselves, all right, judging from your little set-to with that whiskey peddler. I only wish the shot had gone lower, but the chances are he'll empty his barrel himself before he gets to the diggin's."
"Which trail do you think you'll follow?" asked Terry, in turn.
The wheel-barrow man scratched his head.
"I travel light. Believe I'll tackle the Smoky Hill route, straight west from Riley. It's shortest. Sol favors the Republican, on account of the stages. The majority of the people are going by the Smoky, though, or by the Santa Fe Trail—except those who are already striking the Republican farther to the north of us. The California and Oregon Trail, up along the Platte, of course will be the main trail."
Harry returned with a sack of flour, a side of salt pork or sow-belly, some sugar and coffee and beans, matches, a hatchet, and a few other articles. His arms were filled, and Jenny was almost covered, much to her disgust. She hee-hawed at Duke, and Duke stared wonderingly through his matted forelock.
"Best I could do," hailed Harry. "Never saw such a mob. The stores are near cleaned out. I couldn't get picks or spades for love or money, but I reckon we can find them at the other end, or maybe at Junction City beyond Riley."
"Well, I'll see you boys at the diggin's," spoke the wheel-barrow man, rising and grasping the handles of his barrow. And away he trudged, to skirt the procession on the dust-enveloped road.
"He says he's going to try the Smoky Hill trail," informed Terry, "because it's shorter."