Duke and Jenny footed steadily, making their twelve and fifteen miles a day, up and down, into draws and out again, and the "Limited" seemed to be gradually forging ahead. For a time, each night camp might be established (a very simple matter) in company with other pilgrims; and the spectacle of the half-buffalo and the yellow mule pulling in, or already waiting, invariably excited the one conversation. "How far to Pike's Peak, strangers?" "Five hundred miles or so, yet, I guess," would answer Harry, politely. "It's an awful long trail, this way, ain't it? How far to the Republican?" "That I can't say." Then the outfits would exchange travel notes and personal history. But the trail was petering out, as Harry expressed, more and more, as the creeks were being headed, and anxious gold-seekers swerved aside looking for the Republican Valley and better water. About noon one day a giant, solitary tree waited before. Several wagon-tracks led for it, and Duke and Jenny followed of their own accord. It was a big cottonwood, with half the bark stripped from its trunk by lightning. "A store of good wood, there," remarked Harry. "Wonder why nobody's chopped it down." "It's got a sign on it," exclaimed Terry. "See?" And--"'Pike's Peak Post Office,'" he read, aloud. The sign was plain; and presently the reason of the sign was plain. On the white surface of the peeled trunk was scrawled a number of names and other words. "Pike's Peak or Bust!" Underneath: "Busted! No wood, no water, no gold. Boston Party." Also: "Keep to the north." "Climb this tree and you won't see anything." "The jumping-off place." "The Peoria wagon. All well." "Bound for the Peak, are you?" "'Litening Express'!" announced Harry. "Our German friend is still ahead." "'Mr. Ike Chubbers'!" spelled out Terry, with difficulty. "Aw, shucks! He's this far already." "Yes, and there he went!" laughed Harry, gleefully. "Those are sure his tracks. He's sampling his barrel." And by token of a weaving, wobbling, sort of drunken pair of wagon-wheel tracks that made a wide swing for the north, Pine Knot Ike evidently had continued in a new direction. "He's hunting the Republican," agreed Terry. "Hope we don't run into him." "Nope," declared Harry. "Once is enough. Hurrah!" he uttered. And he read: "'Stage line here. Sol Judy.'" "That's so." And Terry peered. "But I don't see the line. Wonder which way he went. There's a double arrow, pointing both ways. Wonder if it's his. Wonder when he wrote here. If somebody hadn't written on top of him with charcoal, a fellow might tell." "Anyway, we won't turn off yet," declared Harry. "And if we stand here 'wondering' we won't get anywhere at all. He said to keep northwest by the high ground. Maybe that wagon track ahead is the Lightning Express. We'll keep going. Gwan, Duke! Jenny!" "Sort of wish we'd gone by the Smoky Hill, don't you?" ventured Terry. "We'd had more company."