We followed the same road between Deadwood and Rapid City, with the exception that we turned out in one place, and went around by Fort Meade.  Here we found a beautiful camping-place the first night near a little stream and great overhanging rocks, and not far from Bear Butte.  We reached Rapid late the next night, which was Saturday, and stopped at the old camp near the mill-race.  Here we stayed over Sunday, but Monday noon saw us under sail again.  As we went through the town we stopped at the freighter’s camp, and told ’Gene Brooks good-bye, and then drove away across the wide rolling plain to the east.

’Gene had warned us that we had a lonesome road before us to Pierre, one hundred and seventy miles, nearly all of it across the reservation.

“You’ll follow the old freight trail all the way,” he said, “but you may not see three teams the whole distance, because since the railroad got nearer it isn’t used.  You’ll find an old stage station about every fifteen or seventeen miles, with probably one man in charge.  You may see a horse-thief or two, or something of that sort.  S’ciety ain’t what it ought to be ’round a reservation gen’rally.”

[Illustration:  The Deserted Ranch]

Just before the sun sank behind the mountains, which lay like low black clouds to the west, we came to a little ranch standing alone on the prairie.  The door was open, and it seemed to be deserted, though there was a rude bed inside.  There was a good well of water, and we decided to camp near it for the night, especially as the grass was good.  There was no other house in sight.  Bedtime arrived, and no one came to the ranch.

“I think I’ll just sleep in that house tonight,” said Jack, “and see how it seems.  I’ll leave the door open, so as not to have too much luxury at first.”

So he went to bed in the shanty, taking Snoozer along, and leaving the wagon to Ollie and me.

We must have been asleep three or four hours when I was awakened by the loud barking of a dog.  I started up and began unfastening the front end of the cover.  Just then I heard the pony snort in terror; and then followed a shot from a gun and the sound of horses galloping away.  As I put my head out, Jack called, excitedly: 

“Some men were trying to get the pony.  They’d have done it, too, if Snoozer hadn’t barked and scared them away.”

I was out of the wagon by this time, and found the pony trembling at the end of her picket-line as near the wagon as she could get.  Snoozer kept barking as if he couldn’t stop.

“Did they shoot at you, Jack?” I asked.

“No, I guess not.  I think they just blazed away for fun.  They went off toward the Reservation.  Some of Gene’s poor s’ciety, I suppose.”

It took half an hour to get the frightened pony and indignant dog quieted; and perhaps it was longer than that before we again got to sleep.

XII:  HOMEWARD BOUND