By nightfall, away to the right and off the road, he espied a column of smoke rising. “A human habitation of some sort,” he thought, and with added courage pushed on.
Distances are very deceptive in this dry, thin air and it was almost dark when he reached the high pole fence surrounding an inclosure in which was a log house. He was about to vault the fence when a confusion of yelps told him that a half-dozen wolfish dogs regarded him as an intruder. Jack realized that these assailants were really in earnest, and hastily climbing one of the uprights, he shouted for help.
A stout German woman appeared in the doorway and, seeing Jack’s position, she shouted,—“Gerunter, Franz!” “Franz” was evidently the leader for as he drew back the others followed, and in answer to her invitation Jack approached the house which was occupied by a German family named Kurtz.
“Please give me a drink of water!” Jack said, sinking into a chair almost exhausted.
Mrs. Kurtz brought it and he drank greedily.
“Vat ist name und vo kom’st du?” she inquired in broken English.
Jack related his encounter with the desperadoes and subsequent experiences, to which she listened with an indifference incomprehensible to him.
“Ya, like Comanche,” she said, busying herself with preparations for his supper.
Oh, how good the coffee and fried chicken smelled! Jack could hardly wait for it to be ready, and when at last Mrs. Kurtz drew a rush-bottomed chair before the table as a signal that supper was ready, he went at the food in a manner which brought an expression of tenderness into even the stolid face of Mrs. Kurtz. Never in his life had he so enjoyed a meal, and his look of satisfaction attested the gratitude he felt.
This family, father, mother and daughter, were ranchers and descendants of the colony of Germans sent over by Bismarck to found Fredericksburgh. Mr. Kurtz now counted his sleek cattle by the thousand.