I was sorry, many a time, on the voyage, that I had not taken passage on a steamer, as I saw boats going by us in clouds of smoke that left Buffalo after we did; but we had a good voyage, and after seeing Detroit, Mackinaw and Milwaukee, we anchored in Southport harbor so late that the captain hurried on to Chicago to tie up for the winter. I had nearly three hundred dollars in a belt strapped around my waist, and some in my pocket; and went ashore after bidding Bill good-by—I never saw the good fellow again—and began my search for John Rucker. I did not need to inquire at Mr. Wisner’s office, and I now think I probably saved money by not going there; for I found out from the proprietor of the hotel that Rucker, whom he called Doc Rucker, had moved to Milwaukee early in the summer.
“Friend of yours?” he asked.
“No,” I said with a good deal of emphasis; “but I want to find him—bad!”
“If you find him,” said he, “and can git anything out of him, let me know and I’ll make it an object to you. An’ if you have any dealings with him, watch him. Nice man, and all that, and a good talker, but watch him.”
“Did you ever see his wife?” I inquired.
“They stopped here a day or two before they left,” said the hotel-keeper. “She looked bad. Needed a doctor, I guess—a different doctor!”
There was a cold northeaster blowing, and it was spitting snow as I went back to the docks to see if I could get a boat for Milwaukee. A steamer in the offing was getting ready to go, and I hired a man with a skiff to put me and my carpet-bag aboard. We went into Milwaukee in a howling blizzard, and I was glad to find a warm bar in the tavern nearest the dock; and a room in which to house up while I carried on my search. I now had found out that the stage lines and real-estate offices were the best places to go for traces of immigrants; and I haunted these places for a month before I got a single clue to Rucker’s movements. It almost seemed that he had been hiding in Milwaukee, or had slipped through so quickly as not to have made himself remembered—which was rather odd, for there was something about his tall stooped figure, his sandy beard, his rather whining and fluent talk, and his effort everywhere to get himself into the good graces of every one he met that made it easy to identify him. His name, too, was one that seemed to stick in people’s minds.
5
At last I found a man who freighted and drove stage between Milwaukee and Madison, who remembered Rucker; and had given him passage to Madison sometime, as he remembered it, in May or June—or it might have been July, but it was certainly before the Fourth oL July.
“You hauled him—and his wife?” I asked.
“Him and his wife,” said the man, “and a daughter.”
“A daughter!” I said in astonishment. “They have no daughter.”
“Might have been his daughter, and not her’n,” said the stage-driver. “Wife was a good deal younger than him, an’ the girl was pretty old to be her’n. Prob’ly his. Anyhow, he said she was his daughter.”