fort riley was fifteen miles west. progress was slow, on the crowded road, and at six o'clock the "pike's peak limited" was glad to draw aside out of the dust and camp for the night near to a wagon labeled "litening express." the owner was a heavy, round-faced german, with a family of buxom wife, and of six girls ranging from big to little. he had a chicken coop, a large cook stove set up for the evening meal, a feather mattress, and an enormous bale of gunny-sacks that formed a seat for him while he watched the supper-getting.

harry and terry called easy greeting, and pretty soon he strolled over.

"iss dat a wild boof'lo?" he queried.

"he was wild once, but he's tame now."

"you are de boys who made dot man loose his whiskey, mebbe."

"i guess we are," laughed harry. it was astonishing, the speed with which news traveled among the overlanders.

"dot was a goot t'ing. how far you say to dose gold mines, already?"

"'bout six hundred miles. what are you doing with all those sacks?"

"i t'ink i poot my gold in dem, an' bring it back home."

"that'll be quite a load, won't it?" smiled harry. "you know gold weighs mighty heavy."

"i haf a goot team," replied the german, not at all worried. "i fill my sacks, an' poot dem in my wagon, an' i come home in time for winter, an' den i am rich. i will be one of de richest men in illinois. mebbe next year i do it over."

"a very fine plan," remarked harry, gravely. and the german returned to his own fire, much satisfied.

"jiminy! is that the way?" blurted terry, suddenly excited again. "we ought to've brought sacks."

"we've a sack of oats and a sack of flour, and i wouldn't trade 'em for his sacks of gold—yet," retorted harry.

this night the flickering camp-fires of the other gold-seekers twinkled all along the road. fiddles were tuned up, to play "monkey musk," "my old kentucky home," "yankee doodle," and other tunes, and voices joined in. what with the playing and singing, the barking of dogs and the noises from cattle, sleep was difficult except for persons as tired as were the "boys from the big blue."

at fort riley, which was a new army post, with massive stone buildings, near the juncture of the smoky hill river from the west and the republican river from the north, here forming the kansas river, the number of outfits lessened. some struck north, some took a short cut south for the santa fe trail at the arkansas river.

at junction city, beyond, the last of the white settlements, the route of the remaining "pike's peak pilgrims" again split. the main portion of the travelers seemed to favor the new trail straight westward, up along the smoky hill river, and on they toiled, to "get rich in a hurry." it was the common report that the smoky hill river could be followed clear to the mountains, but this, as harry and terry afterward heard, proved untrue.

another portion turned off southward, for the santa fe trail again. a good government road led down to it. only a few had decided upon attempting the newest trail of all: that to the northwest, for the republican by way of the divide between the solomon river on the left and the republican, far on the right.

"we're on our way," tersely remarked harry, as the "pike's peak limited" left junction city for the unknown. "it's liable to be lonesome, till the stages come."

however, several wagons had preceded; and this first night camp was made at a creek, and close to another party also camped.

"whar you boys from?" that was the first question.

"do you calkilate to get thar with a buffalo and a yaller mule?" that was the second question.

"how'll you swap dogs?" that was the third question.

and—"do you figger on diggin' out your pound of gold a day?" was the fourth question. for eastern papers had asserted that this was the regular output of the pike's peak country: a pound of gold a day to each miner!

"half a pound a day will suit us," responded harry.

"dearie me!" sighed the woman—a nice, motherly woman, the sight of whom imbued terry with a little sense of homesickness. "we all count on a pound a day for one hundred days, so as to buy a farm back in missouri. maybe, if the children and i dig, we can raise it to two pounds a day. that'll be two hundred pounds, which is a right smart amount of money."

junction city having been put behind, now there was not even a cabin to be seen. the high plain between the valley of the solomon on the south and the valley of the republican on the north stretched wide and unoccupied save by the squads of antelope, the scant trees marking the creek courses, and the scattered white-canvased wagons ambling on.

it was a go-as-you-please march. outfits wandered aside, seeking better trail or better camping-spot. occasionally one had broken down, and was halted for repairs or rest. already the chosen route was dotted with cast-off articles, abandoned to lighten the loads. bedsteads, trunks, mattresses, chairs—and harry, pointing, cried:

"there's the 'lightning express' stove!"

for the german's heavy cook-stove reposed, by itself, on the prairie—and odd enough it looked, too.

"wish we'd come to his feather tick, some evening," quoth terry.

fuel, even buffalo chips (which were the dried deposits left by the buffalo, and burned hotly) were scarce. the "limited" aimed to camp each evening at a creek, if possible, where trees might be found; but most of the dead wood had been used by other travelers, or by indians, and the green willow and ash smudged. the sage and greasewood burned well, but burned out very quickly.

duke and jenny footed steadily, making their twelve and fifteen miles a day, up and down, into draws and out again, and the "limited" seemed to be gradually forging ahead. for a time, each night camp might be established (a very simple matter) in company with other pilgrims; and the spectacle of the half-buffalo and the yellow mule pulling in, or already waiting, invariably excited the one conversation.

"how far to pike's peak, strangers?"

"five hundred miles or so, yet, i guess," would answer harry, politely.

"it's an awful long trail, this way, ain't it? how far to the republican?"

"that i can't say."

then the outfits would exchange travel notes and personal history.

but the trail was petering out, as harry expressed, more and more, as the creeks were being headed, and anxious gold-seekers swerved aside looking for the republican valley and better water.

about noon one day a giant, solitary tree waited before. several wagon-tracks led for it, and duke and jenny followed of their own accord. it was a big cottonwood, with half the bark stripped from its trunk by lightning.

"a store of good wood, there," remarked harry. "wonder why nobody's chopped it down."

"it's got a sign on it," exclaimed terry. "see?" and—"'pike's peak post office,'" he read, aloud.

the sign was plain; and presently the reason of the sign was plain. on the white surface of the peeled trunk was scrawled a number of names and other words.

"pike's peak or bust!"

underneath: "busted! no wood, no water, no gold. boston party."

also:

"keep to the north."

"climb this tree and you won't see anything."

"the jumping-off place."

"the peoria wagon. all well."

"bound for the peak, are you?"

"'litening express'!" announced harry. "our german friend is still ahead."

"'mr. ike chubbers'!" spelled out terry, with difficulty. "aw, shucks! he's this far already."

"yes, and there he went!" laughed harry, gleefully. "those are sure his tracks. he's sampling his barrel."

and by token of a weaving, wobbling, sort of drunken pair of wagon-wheel tracks that made a wide swing for the north, pine knot ike evidently had continued in a new direction.

"he's hunting the republican," agreed terry. "hope we don't run into him."

"nope," declared harry. "once is enough. hurrah!" he uttered. and he read: "'stage line here. sol judy.'"

"that's so." and terry peered. "but i don't see the line. wonder which way he went. there's a double arrow, pointing both ways. wonder if it's his. wonder when he wrote here. if somebody hadn't written on top of him with charcoal, a fellow might tell."

"anyway, we won't turn off yet," declared harry. "and if we stand here 'wondering' we won't get anywhere at all. he said to keep northwest by the high ground. maybe that wagon track ahead is the lightning express. we'll keep going. gwan, duke! jenny!"

"sort of wish we'd gone by the smoky hill, don't you?" ventured terry. "we'd had more company."

"when we strike the republican we'll find plenty company," asserted harry. "this is getting rather lonesome, i must confess."

not a moving object was in sight. the "pike's peak post office" tree stood here all by itself, as if waiting for the stages. and yet, terry well knew (unless the sights at manhattan had been a dream), north and south of them thousands of people were trooping, trooping westward in long, human rivers of creaking wagons.

he and harry gave a last look behind and on either side, searching the brushy expanse for other outfits; then they left the friendly cottonwood and headed westward again, in the tracks of the wagon before. but suddenly harry stopped.

"pshaw! we forgot." and he limped hastily back to the tree. with his pencil he wrote on it. of course! terry returned to see.

"the pike's peak limited. april 20, 1859. all well," announced this latest inscription.

"somebody will read it," quoth harry. "it'll show we got this far ourselves." and they returned, better satisfied, to the cart.

"there's one thing sure," continued harry: "the less company we have, the more fuel and forage we'll find. we're getting into the buffalo country, too. see?"

for the surface of the ground was cut deeply by narrow trails like cattle trails, but made by buffalo wending probably from water to water. some of the trails had been freshly trodden.

"that means we'll have to look sharp after duke and jenny," warned terry.

they proceeded.

"well, here come a party," remarked harry. "but they're going the wrong way."

"maybe it's some of the stage line surveyors."

the party, of three men, two of them horseback and one of them muleback, drew on at trot and rapid walk. the men were bearded, roughly dressed, and well armed with revolvers and rifles. meeting the pike's peak limited, they halted. so harry and terry halted.

"howdy?"

"howdy yourselves. where you bound?"

"for the land of gold," cheerfully answered harry.

"land o' nothin'!" rebuffed the spokesman of the party. "turn back, turn back, 'fore you starve to death."

"why? are you from the pike's peak mines?"

"we're from the cherry creek diggin's, young feller, but we didn't see any mines there nor nowheres else. it's all a fake, and we're on our way to tell the people so and save 'em their bacon."

"aren't you bringing any gold?" exclaimed terry. "have you been there long?"

"long! gold!" and he turned his pocket inside out. "that's the size of your elephant. we've been there since last november, sonny, and the gold is in your eye. that pike's peak craze is the biggest hoax ever invented. it's just a scheme of a few rascals to sell off town lots. they want to get people to come out yonder; and gold is the only thing that'll persuade 'em into the barrenest, porest country on the face of the 'arth. we've been thar, so we know. we couldn't get out, in the winter; but everybody's leavin' now, to tell the folks along all the trails to face back and go home."

terry felt a sinking of the heart. harry also seemed to sober.

"what gold is it that's been sent out of there, then?" he asked.

"californy gold! fetched through from californy. never was taken out of that pike's peak country at all. californy gold, used to fool the people with, back in the states."

"but my father brought home two hundred dollars in gold, and he found it there somewhere, himself—near pike's peak," argued terry, with sudden thought. "we've already got a mine!"

"he did, did he? waal, if he did he was lucky, and he was luckier to get out with it. thar may be a little gold—thar's gold to be washed from 'most any mountain stream, but you can't eat gold. yon country's a freezin' country and a starvation country and an injun country, fit for neither civilized man nor beast. the government'll need to step in and forbid people goin' to it. the hull of it ain't wuth an east kansas acre."

"all right. much obliged," said harry. "so long."

"goin' on?"

"we'll try a piece farther," said harry. "how's the trail ahead? did you see any stage line stakes?"

"stage line stakes! what you dreamin' of? that stage idee is another hoax. you'll find that out, together with a few other things. but if you're set on bein' a pair of young fools, go on. we haven't more time to waste with you."

and forthwith the party spurred on its eastward way.

"look out for injuns," called one, over his shoulder.

"humph!" mused harry. "doesn't sound very encouraging, but we can't believe everything we hear, for and against, both. if we did, we'd never know what to do. a fellow has to act on his own hook, sometimes, until he can judge by his own experience, where he can't depend on the experience of others. that party may have secret reasons for talking so." he eyed terry. "shall we go on, clear through? i don't think a few discouragements will turn the wheel-barrow man back."

"i don't, either!" declared terry, bracing. "let's go on."

"duke! jenny! hep with you!" responded harry. "hurrah for the pike's peak limited, and maybe the lightning express, too! but no german with a wife and six girls and a feather bed shall beat this outfit. we're liable to come on a stake, any time. and the next will be only a few miles, and the next another few miles, and at that rate we'll hit the republican river smack."

but to terry, surveying the monotonous, empty landscape, single stakes planted maybe days' journeys apart seemed rather small landmarks.

in mid-afternoon they did indeed overtake the "litening express." it was halted beside a small, stagnant water-hole, as if making early camp. the wife and the six girls were sitting around, in disconsolate manner, and the german himself was soaking his naked feet in the water.

"what's the matter here?" hailed the cheerful harry. "broken down? you're pointing the wrong way."

for that was so. the one wagon track beyond had doubled, and the wagon, from which the team had been unspanned, was heading east instead of west.

"yah," stolidly answered the german. "we go back. dere iss no elephant. now we go back again home quick. we haf met some men who haf told us."

"oh, pshaw!" uttered harry. "you're half-way. better go the rest of the way and see for yourself. you mustn't let a few wild rumors stop you."

"don't you intend to fill your sacks?" added terry.

"dere iss no gold, so dey say; an' notting else," insisted the german.

"once you believed there was, and now you believe there isn't," laughed harry. "you might as well believe the first as the second, as far as you know."

"and there is gold, because we've got a mine," encouraged terry.

"nein." and the german shook his head. "i set out to fill my sacks; dose men say i cannot fill dem. so i go home. i t'ink you better go home, too. you camp here with us, an' i fix my feet, an' we haf a goot supper, an' den in mornin' we travel togedder."

"nope, we're bound through," replied harry. "this is no time of day for us to camp." and terry was relieved to hear him say so, for the stagnant pool, with the german's feet in it, did not look very inviting. "what did you find ahead?"

"notting an' nobody," grumbled the german. "all joost like dis." and he swept his arm around to indicate the bare stretch of plains. "purty soon you see where i turn to go home, an' den you be all by yourself. i do not like it. i like peoples. so i go home."

"you didn't see any stake, did you?" queried terry.

"what stake?"

"to mark the stage line."

"what for would dey poot any stage line where dey ain't peoples?" demanded the german.

"all right: how'll you sell your mining tools?" asked harry, with alert mind. "you've no use for them."

"mebbe i dig garden. but i sell dem to you for one dollar an' half—de whole lot."

"done!" cried harry. "and how about those sacks?"

"dey iss goot potato sacks. but what will you gif me for dose sacks?"

"four bits."

"well, i guess you take dem. you t'ink to poot potatoes in dem? nein, nein; you iss crazy. it iss as crazy as to t'ink to poot gold in dem."

when they left the german, who had resumed the soaking of his sore feet in the general pool, they were possessed of two new picks, two new spades, a cask of sauerkraut, and the bale of sacks.

"what'll we ever do with the sacks?" inquired terry.

harry scratched his long nose.

"blamed if i know, yet," he admitted. "but you never can tell."

in about an hour they passed the place where the "litening express" had turned about. now there was no trail at all, except the endless buffalo trails. somewhere they had lost even the hoof-prints of the three horsemen.

they made late and solitary evening camp on the farther side of a deep creek bed, whose banks had been broken down by crossing buffalo. there was so little water that terry had to dig a hole, in order to get a pailful for supper and breakfast. but in wandering about searching for buffalo chips in the gloaming, he shouted gladly:

"here's a stake—a new one! it says: 'station 11'!"

harry limped to inspect.

"bully!" he enthused. "we don't care where the other ten are. this shows we're on the right road. well, mr. station master, i want supper and beds for two, and a guide to the next station. what's the tariff, and what'll you trade for sauerkraut and gunny-sacks? but i wish your company'd make your stations a little bigger, for this is a powerful big country."

however, tiny as it was, the stake appealed as a human token. there were signs, also, of an old camp, near the creek; and from the stake hoof-marks led away westward, as if to the next stake.