"I believe you could," said Jean.
All that day we continued through the prairies, with here and there a belt of scrubland to cut across the vision. All that day we rambled more and more in the field of fancy—happy imaginings of the things we would do with those farms of ours which lay out there, somewhere to the westward, waiting only to be claimed. And as evening came on we watched our first prairie sunset. There were no quick dusk and darkness, as in the East; the sun hung long in the western sky, and as it descended swung steadily to the northward. As it fell feather-like ruffles of cloud almost overhead burst to color in the richest mauves and crimsons, and long ribbons in the west floating like golden islands in a sea of amber, caught the glow and silently unfolded a glory of pink and yellow and orange and crimson and burnished brass. Silently and slowly the sun dipped into the prairies as into a world-wide sea, but the sunset continued; long after the great orb itself had disappeared, its radiance filled the western heavens, and even while the grey twilight gathered behind us our train seemed speeding forward into a lake of saffron and champagne.
I turned to look at Jean. She sat by the window where the yellow light blocked out her fine profile against the drab back-ground of the car, and mingled in the richer yellow of her hair. And her blue eyes were all a-glisten, as the long, fine lashes drooped and rose and drooped and rose. And in the corner of her eye I saw a little pearl gather and grow until, unrestrained, it stole across her cheek.
"Regina!" shouted Jack; "Regina!" springing to his feet and beginning to gather up our effects, for we had agreed that this should be the base of our search for land. We were ready to disembark by the time the train had come to a stop, and our first glimpse of the prairie city was that of buildings silhouetted against a saffron sky, and wide streets and open spaces and the foundation-work of the metropolis that was to be. Gaines had recommended an hotel, and we were soon located for the night.
CHAPTER IV.
Jack and I were early about in the morning, intent upon making our prospecting arrangements. We asked a casual question of an early morning lounger at a livery stable—some of these fellows seemed to get up at daylight for the express purpose of lounging—and he flung his voice over his shoulder into the recesses of the barn. "Jake!" he called; "two guys here to see yuh."
Jake was evidently feeding his horses, for we heard the rustle of hay and caught a whiff of its fragrance, but presently he came stumping down the main thoroughfare between the stalls. He was a short man with an over-developed waist line—quite the opposite of the lean and lanky Westerner our imaginations had been picturing. Although it was still early and there was a nip to the air of the first morning in May, he wore neither coat nor waistcoat nor collar nor tie, and the neckband of his shirt was unbuttoned and revealed a generous expanse of throat and chest. He had recently been clean shaven, and he chewed tobacco with great gusto; tiny streamlets of the seductive fluid wound their way through little creases in his flesh which seemed to have been cut for the purpose from the corners of his mouth to the bottom of his chin.
"Well," he said, bringing his weight to a poise on his pudgy feet, and scrutinizing us closely through shrewd, half-closed eyes. "You fellows lookin' fer land?"
"That's what," said Jack, who was already beginning to pick up some of the direct vernacular of the West. "We want a man who knows the country to show us about."
"I'm your gazabo," said Jake, stuffing a fist in a trouser pocket and bringing forth a half-eaten plug of tobacco, from which he helped himself liberally. Then, evidently in sudden embarrassment over his bad manners, he exclaimed, "Pardon me; my mistake!" and extended the plug to Jack and me. We declined.