"Nope," declared Harry. "Once is enough. Hurrah!" he uttered. And he read: "'Stage line here. Sol Judy.'"
"That's so." And Terry peered. "But I don't see the line. Wonder which way he went. There's a double arrow, pointing both ways. Wonder if it's his. Wonder when he wrote here. If somebody hadn't written on top of him with charcoal, a fellow might tell."
"Anyway, we won't turn off yet," declared Harry. "And if we stand here 'wondering' we won't get anywhere at all. He said to keep northwest by the high ground. Maybe that wagon track ahead is the Lightning Express. We'll keep going. Gwan, Duke! Jenny!"
"Sort of wish we'd gone by the Smoky Hill, don't you?" ventured Terry. "We'd had more company."
"When we strike the Republican we'll find plenty company," asserted Harry. "This is getting rather lonesome, I must confess."
Not a moving object was in sight. The "Pike's Peak Post Office" tree stood here all by itself, as if waiting for the stages. And yet, Terry well knew (unless the sights at Manhattan had been a dream), north and south of them thousands of people were trooping, trooping westward in long, human rivers of creaking wagons.
He and Harry gave a last look behind and on either side, searching the brushy expanse for other outfits; then they left the friendly cottonwood and headed westward again, in the tracks of the wagon before. But suddenly Harry stopped.
"Pshaw! We forgot." And he limped hastily back to the tree. With his pencil he wrote on it. Of course! Terry returned to see.
"The Pike's Peak Limited. April 20, 1859. All well," announced this latest inscription.
"Somebody will read it," quoth Harry. "It'll show we got this far ourselves." And they returned, better satisfied, to the cart.