“Best horses I’ve seen on the road,” was the answer.  “Kentucky horses.  Gowdy comes from Kentucky.  Stopped because his wife is bad sick.”

“Where’s he?” I asked.

“Out shooting geese,” said he.  “Don’t seem to fret his gizzard about his wife; but they say she’s struck with death.”

All the while I was cooking my supper I was thinking of this woman, “struck with death,” and her husband out shooting geese, while she struggled with our last great antagonist alone.  One of the women came over from the other camp with her husband, and I spoke to her about it.

“This man,” said she, “jest acts out what all the men feel.  A womern is nothing but a thing to want as long as she is young and can work.  But this womern hain’t quite alone.  She’s got a little sister with her that knows a hull lot better how to do for her than any darned man would!”

It grew dark and cold—­a keen, still, frosty spring evening which filled the sky with stars and bespoke a sunny day for to-morrow, with settled warmer weather.  The geese and ducks were still calling from the sky, and not far away the prairie wolves were howling about one of the many carcasses of dead animals which the stream of immigration had already dropped by the wayside.  I was dead sleepy, and was about to turn in, when my black-bearded man last seen in Dubuque with a constable holding him by the arm, came driving up, and went about among the various wagons as if looking for something.  I knew he was seeking me, and spoke to him.

“Oh!” he said, as if all at once easier in his mind.  “Where’s my—­”

“She’s in the house,” I said; “this is a kind of a tavern.”

“Good!” said he.  “I’m much obliged to you.  Here’s your supplies.  I had to buy this light wagon and a team of horses in Dubuque, and it took a little time, it took a little time.”

I now noticed that he had a way of repeating his words, and giving them a sort of friendly note as if he were taking you into his confidence.  When I offered to pay him for the supplies, he refused.  “I’m in debt to you.  I don’t remember what they cost—­got them with some things for myself; a trifle, a trifle.  Glad to do more for you—­no trouble at all, none whatever.”

“Didn’t you have any trouble in Dubuque?” I asked, thinking of the man who had threatened to shoot him in front of the post-office, and how the black-bearded man had called upon the bystanders to bear witness that he was about to shoot in self-defense.  He gave me a sharp look; but it was too dark to make it worth anything to him.

“No trouble at all,” he said.  “What d’ye mean?”