[CHAPTER X]
Dan, The Doctor
WHEN one sleeps upon the open ground at night with nothing above one's head but the clear blue sky, the sun seems to rise wonderfully early on a bright, unclouded, midsummer morning. As our only artificial lights in this wandering life were tallow candles in a lantern, we soon made the interesting discovery that the night is made for sleep, whereupon we naturally lapsed into the nocturnal habits of aborigines, which on the whole were doubtless quite as consistent with nature as was our own previous custom. So, on the evening after leaving Baker's ranch, the story of the past day having been fully rehearsed, one after another, as the evening shadows began to gather, the boys quietly sought as eligible a spot as could be found on the ground nearby, and they sought it in very much the same deliberate manner as the horse finds his chosen bed, and sinks upon it at the close of day.
When the light of the yet unrisen sun was silently heralding the approach of the on-coming day, it awakened our out-of-door sleepers, and there began at once in both camps the usual early morning activities, for both outfits were to pull out by sunrise. The delightful aroma of coffee and frying bacon stole through the air, stimulating the appetites of men whose stomachs were in waiting.
Our tin cups had not been emptied when from the southward we heard the cracking of whips and the yelping of the mounted mule herders as they came upon the run, rushing the long-eared drove toward the big corral, which was separated from our camp by possibly the fourth of a mile. Soon after the mules had been driven into the enclosure and were expressing some uninterpretable emotions by loud yet plaintive brayings, our boys were actively harnessing their horses, which had been picketed upon the range; speedily they pulled out, while the big train soon uncoiled itself not far behind. Three of us on horseback rode some distance in advance.
The morning was indescribably beautiful. Many have written of Italian skies, and I have often seen and recognized their beauty when they were tinted with the mirrored blue of the Mediterranean, but I have never seen brighter, clearer skies or breathed purer, more exhilarating air than we found on that high and arid plain. Ben, Fred, and I proceeded side by side upon the firm trail. There was no green grass nor were there trees to soften the colors of the landscape, but there were many large patches of cacti then in bloom, the prevailing colors of which were scarlet and bright yellow. We noticed that the long ridges trending toward the river were higher and presented a broader sweep, and the intervening valleys that we crossed were correspondingly wider and deeper than were those further east. Far behind at times we could see our canvas-covered prairie schooners rising over those great fixed billows, like the white-winged barks that bore the Pilgrim fathers over the Atlantic's waves; or possibly like Abraham's ships of the desert all alike drifting westward, ever westward, over a wilderness whether of land or sea, destined to some new region far away.
On the forenoon of that day, June 26th, while riding over the crest of one of those broad swells, we three simultaneously discerned on the western horizon what appeared to be a placid lake of considerable size, with a well-defined shore line on its further border. Its color, bright azure blue, denoted a body of clear and deep water. It was a charming feature in that treeless, arid landscape, but nothing upon our maps had ever suggested to us the existence of such a body of water in that country.
Not long previous to that time, I had seen from the shore of Lake Superior a distant island invisible under ordinary conditions, but at times apparently lifted above the horizon, with its well defined shore line quivering unsteadily in the sky just above the surface of the water. As we moved onward, this phantom Nebraska lake receded, and in an hour it melted into the blue sky. We then knew that it was a mirage. The same phenomenon reappeared, always in the West and under the same conditions, at about nine o'clock on each of the two succeeding mornings.
It is something of a tumble to turn the thoughts from a celestial vision of rare beauty to the details of a dog dinner. Just while the beautiful mirage, and other interesting phases of nature were lifting the trio to an exalted frame of mind, Paul's ruling passion led him to one of the many prairie dog settlements that we passed on our course, where he shot two of the rodents and secured them before they had dropped into their burrow. During our long noon rest he carefully prepared and cooked them for our luncheon. When we assembled at the mess, the unrecognizable dogs, fat and plump and nicely browned, were exhibited by Paul as something rare and dainty.
Our usual mode of serving food was similar to that adopted in the modern cafeterias, in which our methods seem to have been so far imitated that each person takes his plate to the common source of supply for his rations, but returns to his base of operations to devour them. On the occasion of our dog feast, Paul, being ambitious to produce a favorable impression with the roast dog, graciously conveyed it to each of the banqueters as they sat upon the ground in an irregular circuit. It was amusing to watch them as each cut a delicate morsel and conveyed it to his mouth, then chewed the little fragment slowly and critically that the organs of taste might fully sense the flavor. At the same time, with compressed eye-brows, a far-away look in the eyes, and an occasional glance toward the faces of others who were going through the same ceremony, all were preparing to give an expert opinion on the dainty.