I told him it was a double-barreled shotgun, and he looked rather disappointed.  Then he asked me if I had ever thought of going to Kansas.  No, I told him, I thought I should rather locate in Iowa.

“We are going to Kansas,” he said.  “There’s work for real men in Kansas—­men who believe in freedom.  You had better go along with Amos Thatcher and me.”

I said I didn’t believe I could—­I had planned to locate in Iowa.  He dropped the subject by saying that I would overtake him and Thatcher on the road, and we could talk it over again.  When did I think of getting under way?  I answered that I thought I should stay hauled up to rest my horses for a half-day anyhow, so perhaps we might camp that night together.

“A good idea,” said Thatcher, smilingly, as they drove off.  “Join us; we get lonesome.”

I laid by that forenoon because one of my mares had limped a little the day before, and I was worrying for fear she might not be perfectly sound.  I hitched up after noon and drove on, anxiously watching her to see whether I had not been sucked in on horse-flesh, as well as in the general settlement of my mother’s estate.  She seemed to be all right, however, and we were making good headway as night drew on, and I was halted by Amos Thatcher who said he was on the lookout for me.

“We have a station off the road a mile or so,” said he, “and you’ll have a hearty welcome if you come with me—­stable for your horses, and a bed to sleep in, and good victuals.”

I couldn’t think what he meant by a station; but it was about time to make camp anyhow, and so I took him into the wagon with me, and we drove across country by a plain trail, through a beautiful piece of oak openings, to a big log house in a fine grove of burr oaks, with a log barn back of it—­as nice a farmstead as I had seen.  There were fifteen or twenty cattle in the yards, and some sheep and hogs, and many fat hens.  If this was a station, I thought, I envied the man who owned it.  As we drove up I saw a little negro boy peeping at us from the back of the house, and as we halted a black woman ran out and seized the pickaninny by the ear, and dragged him back out of sight.  I heard a whimper from the little boy, which seemed suddenly smothered by something like a hand clapped over his mouth.  Mr. Dunlap’s wagon was not in sight, but its owner came out at the front door and greeted me in a very friendly way.

“What makes you call this a station?” I asked of Thatcher.

Dunlap looked at him sternly.

“I forgot myself,” said Thatcher, more to Dunlap than to me.

“Never mind,” replied Dunlap.  “If I can tell B from a bull’s foot, it’s all right.”

Then turning to me he said, “The old lady inside has a meal of victuals ready for us.  Come in and we’ll let into it.”