We finally gave him fifty cents for all our three sacks would hold, and he pointed out the field a quarter of a mile away and went back to the house. We noticed that he very soon mounted a pony and rode away toward Hay Springs, but thought nothing of it. When we were ready to start we drove over to the corn-field to get what we had paid for. Jack put his head out of the wagon, took a long look, and said,
"That's the sickest-looking corn-field I ever saw!"
We got out, and found a sorry prospect. The corn was poor and scattering and choked with weeds.
"And the worst of it is," called Jack, as he waded out into the weeds, "that it has been harvested about twelve times already. The scoundrel has been selling it to every man that came along for a month, and I don't believe there were three sackfuls in the whole field to start with."
We went to work at it, and found that he was not far from right.
"No wonder the old skeesicks went off to town soon as he got his money," I said. "He won't show himself back here till he is sure we have gone."
We worked for an hour, and managed to fill one bag with "nubbins" and gave up, promising ourselves that we wouldn't be imposed upon in that way again.
We reached Chadron in due time, and went into camp a little way beyond, on the banks of the White River, a stream which flows through Dakota, and finally joins the Missouri. Our camp was on a little flat where the river bends around in the shape of a horseshoe. It seemed to be a popular stopping-place, and there were half a dozen other covered wagons in camp there. The number of empty tin cans scattered about on that piece of ground must have run up into the thousands. But there had not been a mile of the road since we left Valentine which had not had from a dozen to several hundred cans scattered along it, left by former "movers." We had contributed our share, including the gooseberry can. From the labels we noticed on the can windrow along the road it seemed that peaches and Boston baked beans were the favorite things consumed by the overland travellers, though there were a great many green-corn, tomato, and salmon cans.
"You can get every article of food in tin cans now," observed Jack, one day, "except my pancakes. I'm going to start a pancake cannery. I'll label my cans: 'Jack's Celebrated Rattletrap Pancakes—Warranted Free from Injurious Substances. Open this end. Soak two weeks before using.'"
It was a pretty camping-place on the little can-covered flat, and we sat up late, visiting with our neighbors and talking about the Black Hills.