Shamus succeeded admirably in his design of concocting a sensation for us. Our alderman was _ex-officio_ the epicure of the party, half of his duties as a New York city father having been to study carefully all known flavors. He always tasted new dishes, and on our behalf accepted or rejected them. When, therefore, the savory stew came before us, he experimented with a mouthful. Immediately thereafter a commotion arose in camp, and Shamus fled before the righteous wrath of Sachem. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE BLOCK-HOUSE ON THE SOLOMON--HOW THE OLD MAN DIED--WACONDA DA--LEGEND OF WA-BOG-AHA AND HEWGAW--SABBATH MORNING--SACHEM'S POETICAL EPITAPH--AN ALARM--BATTLE BETWEEN AN EMIGRANT AND THE INDIANS--WAS IT THE SYDNEYS?--TO THE RESCUE--AN ELK HUNT--ROCKY MOUNTAIN SHEEP--NOVEL MODE OF HUNTING TURKEYS--IN CAMP ON THE SOLOMON--A WARM WELCOME. On the second day we reached the Solomon, and directed our course down its valley. Shamus' face was as bright as if he was about to blow up an English prison, which, for so pronounced a Fenian, indicated a happiness of the very highest degree. It was evident that Irish Mary had hold of the other end of our cook's heart-strings, and was twitching them merrily. Cupid had indeed found us in the solitude, and, as Sachem expressed it, was "whanging away" at two of our number, at least, most remorselessly. Two days' ride brought us to the forks of the river, where a block-house had been built a year or two before, and in which we expected to find a resident. Since its abandonment by the troops, it had been occupied by an elderly man, known as Doctor Rose, who, solitary and alone, was holding this frontier post, that, when civilization came, he might possess it as a farm. We were disappointed. The barricade was deserted, and every thing about it as silent as the grave. No curling smoke uprose among the trees, and the everlasting hills and dusky prairies stretched away on all sides in weird, wild desolation. We shook the door, and called, but found no answer. It was fastened upon the inside, and as we had no right to force it, we passed on, and encamped by the "Waconda Da," or Great Spirit Salt Spring, a few miles below. We did not suppose that the old man we had sought was so near us. Up on a high ridge only a short distance off, his body was lying, another victim of Indian murder. Savages had been raiding through the settlements below, and thinking himself exposed, he had contrived to fasten the door of the block-house from the outside, and attempted to escape in the night. No one but the red murderers saw the old man die, and how and when they met him will never be known; but his body was found near the roadside, where the path wound over a high ridge, and within sight of the Waconda, and there it was afterward laid in its lonely sepulcher by his sorrowing family.