So that evening the wagon train corralled near the Platte River crossing, where the Salt Lake Trail turned north, about half a mile east from Jules’ Ranch. The river was a great convenience, for on Sunday the men usually tried to slick up by bathing and washing their clothing and tidying generally. Therefore, after breakfast the brush near the river bank was soon displaying shirts and handkerchiefs of red and blue, and sundry pairs of socks, spread out to dry, while their owners sat around and fought mosquitoes and watched the wagon outfits. Some of these forded the river for Salt Lake, Oregon or California, but most of them kept on up the Denver branch. This was interrupted by a distant hullabaloo――a yelling and cheering mingled. The air was thin and still and very clear, so that sound and eyesight carried far through it. The hullabaloo evidently came from Jules’ Ranch, where at the group of buildings a crowd of people had gathered. Davy’s shirt was dry, and he reached for it. “Must be having a celebration over yonder,” drawled Kentuck. “Reckon I’ll go see.” He donned his red shirt and started. Several others made ready to go; and Davy, as curious as anybody, decided that he would go, too. So, wriggling into his clothes, whether they were dry or not, he followed along up the trail to Jules’ place. The ranch was a small collection of adobe or sun-baked clay buildings, and a log shack which was the store. The main excitement was centred in front of the store. The crowd had formed a circle at a respectful distance. They were emigrants and a few of the Charley Martin bull train. “What’s the row?” queried Kentuck of a man at his elbow. “’Pears like this fellow Jules is having a leetle time with himself,” answered the man. “I ’low he’s crazy. He’s got whiskey and flour out thar on the ground and says he’s mixing mortar. It’s a good place for the whiskey, but it’s an awful waste of flour.” Edging through the circle, Davy peered to see. A dirty, darkly sallow visaged, hairy man, in soiled shirt, and trousers sagging from their belt, was capering and screeching, and hoeing at a white mass which might have been real mortar. But the smell of whiskey was strong in the air, and there stood a barrel of it with the head knocked in. The white stuff was flour, for, as Davy looked, the capering hairy man grabbed a sack, tore it open and emptied it on the pile. “I show you how I mek one gr-r-rand mortarr,” he proclaimed. “Flour at one dollar ze pound, whiskey at ten dollars ze quart; zat ze way ol’ Jules mek gr-r-rand mortarr. Wow! Hooray! If anybody teenk he mek one better mortarr, I cut off hees ears. Dees my country; I do as I please.” And he hoed vigorously at his “mortar bed,” and screeched and capered and threatened and boasted and made a fool of himself.