“No, thank you. Everything is all right now. Go back to bylo land and never mind if you hear me fussing around. I’m going to take a high-ball.”
Once more we lay down, and this time I slept soundly. I was awakened by a shout from Dan, who had risen and dressed without disturbing me. The sun was well up, but the camping ground was unaccountably silent. There was no sound of cackling hens, or of stamping, munching horses and mules; no smoke rose from the other side of the cattle pen.
“Ethel, Ethel,” Dan was calling. “Come here, quick.”
I wrapped a blanket about me and ran to him, then stopped in consternation.
The California outfit was gone.
Gone also were our odds and ends of equipment, saved from the wreck of the wheel, my emergency case, a change of clothing, all the groceries and provisions that I had worked so hard to accumulate, and last, but not least, gone were the fifty dollars, left in Mr. Adams’ hands for safe keeping, over which we had been rejoicing the night before.
Dan was stamping about like a madman shouting, “I’ll kill the —— I’ll get the law on him.”
He followed the wagon tracks to the main road, but it was impossible to tell in which direction they had gone. As he returned, he picked up the old battered canteen, given me by the ex-soldier as a keepsake, which had evidently slipped from the wagon as it jolted over the uneven ground.
Together we wandered back to our little camp. We still had our blankets, a few cooking utensils, a partly used box of cocoa, a little sugar, part of a can of sweetened condensed milk, and a few scrappy remains of the evening meal.
After making an unsatisfactory breakfast, we cast up accounts to determine our line of action. I had nearly five dollars in silver in a concealed pocket in my clothing, and Dan had a few dollars also.