“Looks like de worl’ was ketchin on fire ober dere, Marse Clarence,” said young Mark, speaking for the first time since they had resumed their march.

“It is only the light reflected by the prairie, my boy,” kindly replied Mr. Clarence.  And then he smoked on in silence, while the after-glow died out, the twilight faded, and one by one the stars came out.  Corona seemed to be slumbering in her seat.  Young Mark crooned low, as if to himself, a weird, old camp meeting hymn.  It was so dark that he could not have seen to guide his horses, had not the captain’s carryall been immediately in front of his own, and the long trail of wagons in front of the captain’s, with lantern carried by the advance guard to show the way.

“What’s the matter?” suddenly called out Mr. Clarence, who was aroused from his reverie by the halt of the whole procession.

“We ’pears to got sumwhurze,” replied Mark, strongly pulling in his horses, which had nearly run into the back of the captain’s stationary carryall in front.

“We are at Burley’s,” called out Captain Neville from his seat.

While he spoke Mike O’Reilly brought up a lantern to show their way to the house.

Clarence alighted and handed down his niece, took her arm, and followed Captain and Mrs. Neville past the wagons and mules and groups of men through a door that admitted them into a long, low-ceiled room, lighted by tallow candles in tin sconces along the log walls, and warmed by a large cooking stove in the middle of the floor.  Rude, unpainted wooden chairs, benches and tables were the only furniture, if we except the rough shelves on which coarse crockery and tinware were arranged and under which iron cooking utensils were piled.

Captain Neville and Mr. Clarence returned to the wagons to see for themselves that their valuable personal effects were safely bestowed for the night, and that the horses and mules were well cared for.  The proprietor of this place attended them.

While Mrs. Neville and Corona still walked up and down in the room, a small dark-haired woman came in and nodded to them, and asked if they would like to go upstairs and have some water to wash their faces.

Both ladies thankfully accepted this offer, and followed the landlady up a rude flight of steps that led up from the corner of the room to an open trap door, through which they entered the garret.

This was nothing better than a loft, whose rough plank floor formed the ceiling of the room below, and whose sloping roof rose from the floor front and back, and met overhead.

Here they rested through the night.

Let us hasten on.  It was the thirteenth day out.  The trail had crossed nearly the whole of the Indian Territory, and were within one day’s march of Fort Farthermost, on the Texan frontier.

They had passed the previous night at Fort W., and at sunrise they had crossed the Rio Negro, and before noon they had made nearly a score of miles toward their destination.  They halted beside a little stream that took its rise in a spring among the rocks on the right hand of the trail.  Here the party meant to rest for two hours before resuming the march to Fort Farthermost, which they hoped to reach that same night.