There was plenty of wheat strewn about the floor for us to lie upon, and soon two other weary, footsore travelers, lulled by the soft breeze blowing in the window, had fallen easy victims to the soothing caresses of Morpheus. It was about 4 a. m. that we were roused out of bed by a man announcing that breakfast was ready. For once I didn't care to eat. "Come and get it, or I'll throw it out--Come and get it or I'll throw it out," yelled a loud voice from the vicinity of the wagon. "What's he going to throw out?" I asked the fellow who had disturbed my sleep. "It's the cook calling the men to breakfast," said he, "and you'd better hurry if you want any." "Where is a place to wash?" I asked. "Over there at the end of the wagon," said the man. I reached the spot and found some seven or eight men washing from one small tin vessel about half full of soapy water. Water is a scarce article on the prairies and but little of the precious fluid is used for washing purposes. I washed the corners of my eyes, but there was no towel, comb nor brush to be had, and I made my way to the breakfast table. The table was one long plank, supported at either end by a barrel. The plates, saucers and knives were all made of tin. The grub was well cooked and of good variety. The table was soon cleared and it was now to the wheat fields. On the third day at noon both White and myself had gotten enough of the harvest fields and, receiving our pay, set out on foot for Vernon. That night we caught a passenger train and beat it one hundred miles to Childress, Tex., where we were put off. But not to stay long. An emigrant, who was moving his household effects to the Indian Territory, allowed us to get in the car where his furniture was and carried us over two hundred miles to Dalhart, Tex., landing there late the next day. I parted with White at Dalhart. He had changed his mind about going to Roswell, and now wanted to go to Denver, Colo. Two hours after he had caught the Denver train I was safely hid in a coke car on an El Paso freight train. I had no trouble in catching the train at Dalhart, for just as it pulled out a rough fight took place on the depot platform, both parties using firearms, which served momentarily to take attention from me. It's doubtful though whether I'd have been bothered in Dalhart anyway, for it is one of those rough little Western towns 'way up in the Texas Panhandle, in which "everything goes."