It was noon at Big Springs, the last village on the Union Pacific Railroad in Nebraska, when I sat down to write in my dairy. I had just finished a combination breakfast and dinner, warranted to kill any appetite and keep it dead for twelve hours. Consequently I wrote under great pressure.
Since striking Camp Coyote, I had shot prairie dogs, owls, jack-rabbits, and gophers innumerable, but on Wednesday, June 30, I killed my first rattlesnake. It was not the first we had seen, but the first to lie in our path. I wanted to shoot it's head off, but instead of it losing its head, I lost mine, and severed its vertebræ. The snake was three feet five, and possessed eight rattles and a button. Cookskin suggested that the button might come in handy in many ways. "You know, Pod, you are always losing buttons."
These dreaded reptiles abound on the plains, particularly in dogtowns, where they can dine on superfluous baby-dogs when families become too large. Three sorts of creatures, including the owl—animal, bird, and reptile—bunk together companionably, but have quarrels of their own, doubtless, like mankind in domestic affairs. At that season the South Platte was drained for irrigation in Colorado. I was riding peaceably along, watching its morbid current and the gray hills beyond, when suddenly my valet yelled to me, "Look out, Pod, a rattler ahead!"
Coonskin was riding Cheese, who leaped to one side, but my own steed, blinded by his spectacle-frames, walked on and stepped over the coiled snake, which struck at my leg. Fortunately my canvas legging protected me from the reptile's fangs, which glanced off, letting him fall in the trail. Instantly I turned in my saddle and ended its miserable existence.
The report of my revolver attracted some cowboys, who galloped up on their rope horses and accompanied us to their adobe house a few miles beyond. It was five in the afternoon, the day was hot, and our journey long and dusty. They were a jolly lot. Thir ranch was a square sod structure, without a floor, and sparingly furnished, but cool and comfortable.
"We'll have hot biscuit for supper," said one of the cowboys.
"So you like cooking," I remarked; "I pride myself on the dumplings I make, and my flapjacks are marvels of construction."
"Hang together well, I suppose," observed the cook, smiling and piling buffalo chips in the stove.
"I haven't tasted dumplings since I visited the World's Fair," said another.
"Well," declared the first speaker, "my tenderfoot friend, your oven will soon be hot, and the flour, soda, shortening, and apples are on the shelf. Anything else you need, ask for it."