“God willin’,” said she, “I’m gwine to find Abe Felton, the pa of dese yere chillun.”

“The Underground Railway,” said Dunlap, “knows where Abe is, and will send Sarah along with change of cars.  You may go, Sarah.  Now,” he went on, as the negroes disappeared, “you have it in your power to exercise the right of an American citizen and perform the God-accursed legal duty to report these fugitives at the next town, join a posse to hunt them down under a law of the United States, get a reward for doing it, and know that you have vindicated the law—­or you can stand with God and tell the law to go to hell—­where it came from—­and help the Underground Railway to carry these people to heaven.  Which will you do?”

“I’ll tell the law to go to hell,” said I.

Dunlap and Thatcher looked at each other as if relieved.  I have always suspected that I was taken into their secret without their ordinary precautions; and that for a while they were a little dubious for fear that they had spilt the milk of secrecy.  But all my life people have told me their secrets.

They urged me hard to go with them; and talked so favorably about the soil of the prairies that I began to think well again of my Iowa farm.  When I had made it plain that I had to have a longer time to think it over, they began urging me to let them have my horses on some sort of a trade; and I began to see that a part of what they had wanted all the time was a faster team as well as a free-state recruit.  They urged on me the desirability of having cattle instead of horses when I reached my farm.

“Cows, yes,” said I, “but not steers.”

So I slept over It until morning.  Then I made them the proposition that if they would arrange with Preston to trade me four cows, which I would select from his herd, and would provide for my board with Preston until I could break them to drive, and would furnish yokes and chains in place of my harness, I would let them have the team for a hundred dollars boot-money.  Preston said he’d like to have me make my selection first, and when I picked out three-year-old heifers, two of which were giving milk, he said it was a whack, if it didn’t take me more than a week to break them.  Dunlap and Thatcher hitched up, and started off the next morning.  I had become Cow Vandemark overnight, and am still Cow Vandemark in the minds of the old settlers of Vandemark Township and some who have just picked the name up.

But I did not take on my new name without a struggle, for Flora and Fanny had become dear to me since leaving Madison—­my first horses.  How I got my second team of horses is connected with one of the most important incidents in my life; it was a long time before I got them and it will be some time before I can tell about it.  In the meantime, there were Flora and Fanny, hitched to Dunlap and Thatcher’s light wagon, disappearing among the burr oaks toward the Dubuque highway.  I thought of my pride as