The face of the severed head was assuredly the hideous face of Thunder Horse, the drunken Kiowa; and the hair was the Kiowa's hair. "Thunder Horse died because of his leg, and Ike found him and cut off his head!" scoffed Terry. "I'm going straight to the wagon and show the whole thing up. We'll make Ike look sick--that old blow and his barrel and his 'big-chief' head!" "No," opposed Harry. "Wait. There's no use in showing Ike up now. We'll save our ammunition." "Well, I'm mighty glad old Thunder Horse is gone, anyhow," observed Terry, as they went back to the cart. "He was bad medicine." The Ohio party were starting on. So the boys from the Big Blue put Duke and Jenny to work again and fell in with the procession wending broad way up the shallow valley of the Republican. Once every day the procession opened to give passage to the stages westward bound on the trail; and at last stages eastward bound, returning to Leavenworth, were met. They were assailed with all kinds of questions, but they brought little news of importance, and apparently little gold. Many people eastward bound, ahorse or afoot, also were met. "Turn back, every one of you," they advised. "Folks are going out faster'n they're coming in. Some of 'em don't even stop to unhitch their teams. Picks and spades are offered at fifteen cents apiece, and no takers, and the man who makes fifty cents a day is lucky." "Auraria's burned and we've hanged the boomers," proclaimed another squad. And another squad, trudging along, warned earnestly: "Look out for the man with buckskin patches on his breeches. He's the leader of the gang who's robbing the pilgrims. Remember the buckskin patches. There's no elephant--only jackasses." Not few in the procession did turn back, especially when the water and fuel began to fail, as wider and more bare and sandy the valley became. Soon there were several marches without water at all, for the river had sunk into the sand. The choking dust floated high, the sun was burning hot. The majority of the animals were sore-footed, from the gravel and cactus and brush. Duke, who had been behaving nobly, seemed to have strained his shoulder and was limping. Jenny was gaunter than ever. The trail had veered to the southwest--to strike, it was reported, some creeks, and Cherry Creek itself. "That's another trail yonder to the south, isn't it?" spoke Harry, one morning. "Yes; and wagons on it!" exclaimed Terry. "Maybe it's the Smoky Hill trail, or the people from the Santa Fe trail." The "Root Hog or Die" professor, who tramped with them while his oxen followed of their own accord, consulted a map that he carried. "I think they must be from the Smoky Hill route," he said. The two lines of travel approached each other, and at evening were about to join. Terry uttered a cheer. "I see the wheel-barrow man!" he cried. "They're the Smoky Hill crowd, all right." "They look pretty well used up," remarked Harry. "Must have had a hard trip."