In the meantime Jack had got the grouse ready, and we ate it about as ravenously as the horses did their corn.  We had just finished, and were talking about going, when a tall man on a small horse almost covered with saddle rode up, and began to talk cheerfully on various topics.  After a while he said: 

[Illustration:  The Careful Corn Owner]

“Well, boys, was that good corn?”

We all suspected the truth instantly.

“He did it!” exclaimed Jack, pointing at me.  “He did it all alone.  We’re going to give him up to the authorities at the next town.”

The man laughed, and said:  “Don’t do it.  He may reform.”

There seemed to be but one thing to do, so I said:  “It was your corn, I suppose.  Our only excuse is that we were out of corn.  Tell us how much it is, and we’ll pay you for it.”

“Not a cent,” answered the man, firmly.  “It’s all right.  I’ve travelled through them Sand Hills myself, and I know how it is.  You’re welcome to all you took, and you can have another sackful if you want to go after it.”

I thanked him, but told him that we expected to get some feed at Gordon, the next town.  After wishing us good-luck, he rode away.

We started on, and made but a short stop for noon, near Gordon.  We found ourselves in a fairly well-settled country, though the oldest settlers had been there but two or three years.  The region was called the Antelope Flats, and was quite level, with occasional ravines.  The trail usually ran near the railroad, and that night we camped within three or four rods of it.  Long trains loaded with cattle thundered by all night.  We were somewhat nervous lest Old Blacky should put his shoulder against the wagon while we slept, and push it on the track in revenge for the poor treatment we gave him in the Sand Hills, but the plan didn’t happen to occur to him.  It was at this camp that we encountered a remarkable echoing well.  It was an ordinary open well, forty or fifty feet deep, near a neighboring house, but a word spoken above it came back repeated a score of times.  We failed to account for it.

The next forenoon we jogged along much the same as usual and stopped for noon at Rushville.  This was not far from the Pine Ridge Indian Agency and the place called Wounded Knee, where the battle with the Sioux was fought three or four years later.  We saw a number of Indians here, and though they came up to Ollie’s idea of what an Indian should be a little better than the one that rode with us, they still did not seem to be just the thing.

[Illustration:  A Study in Red Men]

“I don’t think,” he said, “that they ought to smoke cigarettes.”

“It does look like rather small business for an Indian, doesn’t it?” answered Jack.  “But then smoking cigarettes is small business for anybody.  What’s your idea of what an Indian ought to smoke?”

“Well, I’m not sure he ought to smoke anything, except of coarse the peace-pipe occasionally.  And he oughtn’t to smoke that very much, because an Indian shouldn’t make peace very often.”