The trail had veered to the southwest—to strike, it was reported, some creeks, and Cherry Creek itself.
"That's another trail yonder to the south, isn't it?" spoke Harry, one morning.
"Yes; and wagons on it!" exclaimed Terry. "Maybe it's the Smoky Hill trail, or the people from the Santa Fe trail."
The "Root Hog or Die" professor, who tramped with them while his oxen followed of their own accord, consulted a map that he carried.
"I think they must be from the Smoky Hill route," he said.
The two lines of travel approached each other, and at evening were about to join. Terry uttered a cheer.
"I see the wheel-barrow man!" he cried. "They're the Smoky Hill crowd, all right."
"They look pretty well used up," remarked Harry. "Must have had a hard trip."
The wheel-barrow man, pushing bravely, was in the van. His barrow wobbled, and the wheel was reinforced with rawhide, but he himself was as cheery as ever when the Big Blue outfit welcomed him.
"Yes, terrible hard trip," he acknowledged. "Some of us near died with thirst, and I hear tell that several wagons were burnt for fuel, so's to cook food and keep the folks from starving. But those of us who are left are still going."