This well-thought-out plan worked so well that nothing of special interest happened in their steady ride down to the railroad, out of the historic cove, in among the fields and houses of the later land.
And to make quite as brief the story of their uneventful journey across the wide and treeless region below, it may be said that on the evening of the next day they pulled in at the little log-cabin hotel of Mrs. Culver, the first woman who ever saw the head of the true Missouri.
That lady, quaint and small, came out and made them welcome. “I’ve three beds, in two rooms,” said she, “and you’ll have to double up, but I can feed you all, I guess.”
“Is there any fishing?” asked Jesse. But an instant later he answered himself. “Great Scott!” said he. “Look at that trout jump. He’s big as a whale. Look it—look it, fellows!”
They turned as he pointed down the hill to the wide, clear water of the spring creek. A dozen splashes and rings showed feeding fish, and large ones.
“Oh, yes,” said their hostess, indifferently. “There’s a good many of them in there. They seem to run around more along toward evening.”
The young sportsmen could not wait for supper. Hurriedly getting together their rods and reels, they soon had leaders and flies ready and were running down the slope after what bid fair to be rare sport with the great fish which they saw leaping.