"You bet," I replied; "we know who we are."
"I suppose there are lots of folks who don't know, Prof," he returned; "but they'll find out before we reach 'Frisco."
"But Coonskin," I asked, looking up from my writing, "do you know where we are?"
I had no sooner put the question than a whirlwind swept down upon the camp and scattered everything broadcast. Tent, awning, table, chairs, ink and writing pad, packing cases, and articles of all kinds, not to mention dog, donkeys, and men chased each other over the cacti and sand; the tent half inflated, rolled over in the scudding wind like a balloon.
"No, I don't," said Coonskin, gaining a sitting posture a rod from where I stood on my head, some hundred yards from our original camp.
"What are you talking about?—are you wandering?" I asked.
"I think the whole shooting-match has been wandering some," said he, picking the sand out of his eyes.
It was long before we collected our belongings. I never found my letter for the press.
Just before sunset we took up the march across the broad, rolling plains, which grew tiresome to look upon before darkness set in. But occasionally a hand-car with its sloop-rigged sails set to the wind would speed over the rails in the distance, like a cat-boat before a gale, and break the monotony of the scene. This mode of travel appears to be characteristic of the Western plains alone.
We saw innumerable buffalo wallows, great depressions in the sand where the vast herds of buffalo in the early days wallowed in the cool earth for salt, and to escape the heat and pestering gnats. In most cases these "wallows" are covered with cacti and other desert verdure, and are apt to upset the unwary traveler after dark, unless he keeps to the beaten trail.