He followed the wagon tracks to the main road, but it was impossible to tell in which direction they had gone. As he returned, he picked up the old battered canteen, given me by the ex-soldier as a keepsake, which had evidently slipped from the wagon as it jolted over the uneven ground. Together we wandered back to our little camp. We still had our blankets, a few cooking utensils, a partly used box of cocoa, a little sugar, part of a can of sweetened condensed milk, and a few scrappy remains of the evening meal. After making an unsatisfactory breakfast, we cast up accounts to determine our line of action. I had nearly five dollars in silver in a concealed pocket in my clothing, and Dan had a few dollars also. We were camped near the loading pen of a large cattle corral placed beside a lonely railroad siding. We had no means of knowing where Adams had gone; no way of pursuing him. We had no idea where to find the sheriff of that county or other officer of the law. If we should succeed in capturing the thieves, what sort of a case could we make against them? We had no written agreement—not the scratch of a pen to show that they owed us anything at all. And possession is nine points of the law. Then, how could we live while waiting for results from the slow-moving legal machinery? The case looked hopeless from every angle. I told Dan about Mrs. Adams’ conduct the day before and something of the affair with the man. He read me quite a lecture and then advised me to forget the whole episode as quickly as possible. We had but one object in life—to reach California as soon as fate would let us. We must dismiss the California outfit from our minds—not speak of it again. But one road lay open to us. We must have recourse to a “side-door Pullman.” Bundles on backs, we struck out for a water tank, there to await the coming of a freight. A long string of coal cars pulled in and stopped for water. Dan’s request for a ride to Cheyenne was granted with the proviso that we drop off before we reached the city. The brakeman spoke to the engineer, who agreed to take advantage of a steep grade a few miles east of town to slow down sufficiently for us to jump in safety, adding that this would be our only chance, as trains always ran down the further slope into the city at a high speed. We were forced to ride in a gondola, which is a fairly warm place in a blazing sun. Mile after mile we rode, and at last were warned of the approach to the hill. Crouching at the end of the car, we waited for the speed to slacken. Suddenly I noticed that the speed was increasing instead of diminishing, and a glance ahead showed the engineer waving his arms frantically. The brakeman bounded into the car. “My God!” he yelled. “The super’s on behind and Buck daren’t slow down. We’re over the hill. You’ll be pinched in Cheyenne, sure, and we’ll get a sixty-day layoff, if we don’t all get the bounce.”