“Cast ’im loose, sir, an’ gi’n ’im leave of absence as long as ’e pleases. It’s my opinion that some the ’osses o’ the western prairies ain’t quite eekal to some o’ the ’osses I’ve bin used to in Rotten Row. Is this the place, Hunky? Well, now,” continued the little man, with flashing eyes, as he looked round on the magnificent scene, “it’ll do. Beats W’itechapel an’ the Parks any ’ow. An’ there’s lots o’ poultry about, too!” he added, as a flock of wild ducks went by on whistling wings. “I say, Hunky Ben, w’at’s yon brown things over there by the shores o’ the lake?”
“Buffalo,” answered the scout.
“What! wild uns?”
“There’s no tame ones in them diggin’s as I knows on. If there was, they’d soon become wild, you bet.”
“An’ w’at’s yon monster crawlin’ over the farthest plain, like the great sea-serpent?”
“Why, man,” returned the scout, “them’s the waggins. Come, now, let’s to work an’ git the fire lit. The cart wi’ the chuck an’ tents’ll be here in a few minutes, an’ the waggins won’t be long arter ’em.”
“Ay, wi’ the women an’ kids shoutin’ for grub,” added Zook, as he limped after the scout, while the rest of the little band dispersed—some to cut firewood, others to select the best positions for the tents. The waggons, with a supply of food, arrived soon after under the care of Roaring Bull himself, with two of his cowboys. They were followed by Buttercup, who bestrode, man-fashion, a mustang nearly as black as herself and even more frisky.
In a wonderfully short time a number of white tents arose on the plateau and several fires blazed, and at all the fires Buttercup laboured with superhuman effect, assisted by the cowboys, to the unbounded admiration of Zook, who willingly superintended everything, but did little or nothing. A flat rock on the highest point was chosen for the site of a future block-house or citadel, and upon this was ere long spread a breakfast on a magnificent scale. It was barely ready when the first waggons arrived and commenced to lumber up the ascent, preceded by two girls on horseback, who waved their hands, and gave vent to vigorous little feminine cheers as they cantered up the slope.
These two were our old friends whom we knew as May Leather and Mary Jackson, but who must now be re-introduced to the reader as Mrs Charlie Brooke and Mrs Dick Darvall. On the same day they had changed their names at the Ranch of Roaring Bull, and had come to essay wedded life in the far west.
We need hardly say that this was the great experimental emigrant party, led by the Reverend William Reeves, who had resolved to found a colony on total abstinence principles, and with as many as possible of the sins of civilisation left behind. They found, alas! that sin is not so easily got rid of; nevertheless, the effort was not altogether fruitless, and Mr Reeves carried with him a sovereign antidote for sin in the shape of a godly spirit.