"Mr. Grayson," said Harley, "without seeking to discredit you, I wish I had gone to another war instead of coming out here with you. That would have been less wearing." The candidate laughed. "But you are seeing the West as few men from New York ever see it," he said. The driver turned, and a little stream of water ran off his hat-brim into Harley's face. "It's the wind that holds us back, Mr. Grayson," he said; "if we leave the road and cut across the prairie on the hard ground it will save at least an hour." "By all means, turn out at once," said the candidate, "and the others will follow." "Wise driver; considerate man!" remarked Harley. There was marked relief the moment the wheels of the carriage struck the brown grass. They rolled easily once more, and the off horse, lifting up his head, neighed cheerfully. "It means midnight, and not later, Harley," said the candidate, in a reassuring tone. Harley leaned back in his seat, and trusted all now to the wise and considerate driver who had proposed such a plan. The night was just as black as a hat, and the wind and rain moaned over the bleak and lonesome plains. They were far out in Nebraska, and, although they were near the Platte River, it was one of the most thinly inhabited sections of the state. They had not seen a light since leaving the last speaking-place at sundown. Harley wondered at the courage of the pioneers who crossed the great plains amid such a vast loneliness. He and the candidate were tired, and soon ceased to talk. The driver confined his attention to his business. Harley fell into a doze, from which he was awakened after a while by the sudden stoppage of the carriage. The candidate awoke at the same time. The rain had decreased, there was a partial moonlight, and the driver was turning upon them a shamefaced countenance. "What's the matter?" asked the candidate. "To tell you the truth, Mr. Grayson," replied the driver, in an apologetic tone. "I've gone wrong somehow or other, and I don't know just where we're at." "Lost?" said Harley. "If you wish to put it that way, I reckon you're right," said the driver, with a touch of offence. "What has become of the other carriages?" asked Harley, looking back for them. "I reckon they didn't see us when we turned out, and they kept on along the road." There was no doubt about the plight into which they had got themselves. The plain seemed no less lonely than it was before the white man came. "What's that line of trees across yonder?" asked the candidate. "I guess it marks where the Platte runs," replied the driver. "Then drive to it; if we follow the trees we must reach the bridge, and then things will be simple."