“I’ve come as near it as any living man; for I boiled the Illinois dry, once!” replied the Captain, alluding to an experience of a former year of drouth, when a steam sawmill he was operating on the river-bank had to be closed down for a season for want of water. “Don’t worry, Captain,” cried Sally O’Dowd. “The women and children won’t forsake you.” “Because they can’t,” was the curt response, and he walked away to be alone. * * * * * The next morning, the teamsters, notwithstanding the strike, were standing around the camp-fires, waiting for breakfast. Some of them looked a little ashamed, some were a little concerned as to the fate of the train, and two or three seemed to enjoy the Captain’s predicament. “Clear out, every last one of you!” he exclaimed, as they made a move for the mess-boxes as soon as breakfast was ready. “The women folks are my teamsters now, and they shall have the first seats at my table.” As the men turned away, crestfallen and hungry, their resolution to “get rich quick” began to drop toward zero; but their leader and spokesman hurried them away, explaining that they would find a trading-post and plenty of “grub” across the river. Mrs. McAlpin paused to visit Scotty a moment at his hammock; and as Mrs. Benson was busy with some duties at the fire, the couple were alone. “Why these groanings, Mr. Burns?” she asked, placing her cool hand upon his corrugated forehead. “Because I’m a fool!” “Did anybody ever dispute it?” she asked with a silvery laugh. “There! Not another word. You are my patient, remember. You mustn’t talk back.” “Your touch is the touch of an angel.” “Did you ever see an angel?” “I’m _vis-à-vis_ with one this holy minute. Ouch! Confound that pain!” “I thought you enjoyed my surgery. You said you did.” “I have just said I was a fool.” “Did I dispute it?” He laughed in spite of his pain. “Say, Little Doctor, are you never going to let me talk it out?” “Talk what out?” “Our personal affairs.” “Not yet. You must be patient. I am not a free woman yet.” “But you’ll let me hope?” “I cannot say. I am determined to obey the letter of the law.” “I could leap for joy, Daphne!” “Better not try it; might injure your knitting-bones.” “Here,” said Mrs. Benson, who had been purposely busy at the fire, “is a dish of savory stew. And here is some hardtack, soaked till it is light and soft. It is hot and nicely buttered. The coffee is guiltless of cream, but it is fresh and good.” “And black and aromatic and Frenchy,” exclaimed Scotty. “Mrs. McAlpin, will you dine with me to-day?” “No, Mr. Burns; my meal awaits me at the fire.” “What sort of game is this?” he asked, as he ate with relish. “Captain Ranger called it a prairie bird.” “Birds in my country don’t wear hair, but feathers,” he said, holding to the light the hind-quarter of a prairie dog, and pointing to bits of hair afloat in the gravy.