Dan’s efforts to find work in Omaha were unavailing, so after another day’s rest we struck out on the military road leading away from the city. Two days’ travel convinced us that we were hopelessly wrong.
I now look upon myself as something of an expert in mud, and I can truthfully recommend the Nebraska article to be superior in cohesion, adhesion, weight and quantity to any known combination of earth and water. After a few hundred yards of travel, the wheels and skirt guard would completely disappear in great masses of reddish adobe, while our feet assumed elephantine proportions. Standing first on one foot, then on the other, we would rid ourselves of a few pounds of mother earth and scrape the wheel as free as possible from its accumulations. A struggle onward of a quarter of a mile forced us to repeat the process.
A day passed—and another. Food ran out and farmers refused to sell; there were no stores, and the situation grew desperate.
We approached a school house one evening and stopped under a horse shed for the night. The teacher was passing and stopped to chat. Later she returned with a bottle of malted milk tablets, which constituted our evening meal.
Next morning we turned south to reach the railroad. About one o’clock we came to a little blacksmith shop, and after some haggling, bought a half loaf of mouldy bread for a dime. Pushing on for perhaps a mile, we stopped in a lonely spot to make tea. Everything was dripping with moisture from recent rains, so, despite Dan’s vigorous efforts, the fire refused to burn.
We were both on our knees blowing lustily when a shadow falling athwart the rack attracted our attention and, glancing up, we saw a bareheaded man standing with folded arms, fixedly regarding us. We sat back and stared, for we had seen no house in that vicinity.
“When you get tired exercising your lungs,” began the stranger, “just follow me and get a surprise.”
Thinking that any change must be an improvement on our situation, we gathered up the cooking utensils and obediently dragged the wheel after our guide, who plunged into a thick growth of trees on our right.
A few minutes’ walk brought us to an immense tent, from which issued a great noise of crunching, stamping and snorting. Passing around to the far end, we beheld, stretching down one side of the interior, a long row of horses and mules—perhaps twenty in number—busily munching their noonday feed, while the other side of the tent was fitted with a kitchen range, a gasoline stove, cooking utensils, table and chairs, and in the rear some bunks and a great pile of hay. Leading the way through the kitchen, the stranger pulled out a curtain strung on a wire, closing off the rear compartment, and brought a huge kettle of hot water, buckets of cold, a large tub, towels and soap, with directions to enjoy ourselves while he prepared a meal. And what a delight it was to have the use of such conveniences, crude as they were. My opinion of “dirty hoboes” has undergone a radical change since I have seen for myself the difficulties that beset the man who has nothing, in his efforts toward cleanliness.
Our ablutions performed, we entered the kitchen and found our host deep in the labour of cooking. And what a meal he set out. Hot biscuits, mashed potatoes, broiled ham and cream gravy, fried eggs and a pot of delicious coffee.