He read the words over slowly while he was munching his corn bread and bacon, and then turned his attention to the emigrant’s family, on whom he had thus far bestowed only a passing glance.
There were eight of them—two women and six children; and as both the women were addressed as mother, Guy thought there ought to be another man about the camp; but as he did not put in an appearance, he finally asked after him.
“Where is your partner?” said he to the emigrant. “You ask that question, I suppose, because you see two families here,” replied the man. “One of them is mine, and the other was my brother’s. He is dead, and so I have his wife and little ones to care for till I get them back among their friends.”
Guy helped himself to another piece of bacon and looked up at the words that were painted on the wagon cover.
“Did you get through, or bust?” said he.
“Both,” replied the emigrant. “I came through all right, and busted afterward. My brother, he died, the placer diggings give out, so that Californy ain’t worth staying in, and now I want to get back to Missouri, where I came from, before I am clean broke. These women folks can’t drive horses—this is the third time they have run into stumps and rocks, and broke that wagon down, between here and Sonora—and I’ll give any man ten dollars a month that’s a mind to set up there and drive for us.”
“Are you going straight to the States?” asked Guy.
“Just as straight as the nearest trail runs.”
“Then I’m your man. I’ll drive one wagon for you.”
“Talk enough,” said the emigrant. “I can rest easy now. That miserable wagon has been more bother to me than it is worth.”