“Oh, I guess not,” said Jack.  “You see, we’ve got four guns.  Then there’s Snoozer.”

“But will they try to catch us?”

“Well, I don’t know.  Grandpa Oldberry says the varmints are awfully thick this fall.”

“But what are varmints?”

“Oh, wolves, and b’ars, and painters, and—­”

“What are painters?”

“Grandpa means panthers, I guess.  Then there’s Injuns, and hoss-thieves, and—­”

“There’s a prairie-chicken!” I cried, as one rose up out of the long grass.

“Perhaps we can get one for dinner,” said Jack.

[Illustration:  Mutiny of the Pony]

He took his gun and went slowly toward where the other had been.  Another whirred away like a shot.  Jack fired, but missed it.  We started on, leaving the pony tossing her head and stamping her feet in a great passion on account of the report of the gun; but when she saw that we paid no attention to her and were rapidly going out of sight she turned, after taking a long look back at distant Prairie Flower, and came trotting along the road, with her stirrups dangling at her sides, and soon was following close behind.

Before we realized it the chronometer showed that it was almost noon.  By this time we had left the sea of sunflowers and crept over the wrinkle at the western edge of the valley, and were off across the rolling prairie itself.  Still Snoozer never stirred.

“I wonder when he’ll wake up?” said Ollie.

“You’ll see him awake enough at dinnertime,” said Jack.

“Well, you’ll see me awake enough then, too,” answered Ollie.  “I’m hungry.”

“We hardy pioneers plunging into the trackless waste of a new and unexplored country never eat but one meal a day,” said Jack.  “And that’s always raw meat—­b’ar-meat, generally.”

“Well,” said Ollie, “I don’t see any b’ar-meat, or even prairie-chicken-meat.  Why didn’t you hit the prairie-chicken, Uncle Jack?”

“I’m not used to shooting at such small game,” answered Jack, solemnly.  “My kind of game is b’ar—­b’ar and other varmints.”

Just then we passed a house, and down a little way from it, close to the road, was a well.

“Here’s a good place to have dinner,” said Jack; so we drove out by the side of the road and stopped.  “If I’m to be cook,” said Jack to me, “then you’ve got to take care of the horses and do all the outside work.  I’ll be cook; you’ll be rancher.  That’s what we’ll call you—­rancher.”

I unhitched the horses, tied them behind the wagon, and gave them some oats and corn in the feed-box.  The pony I fed in the big tin pail near by.  The grass beside the road was so dry, and it was so windy, that we decided it was not safe to build a fire outdoors, so Jack cooked pancakes over the oil-stove inside.  These with some cold meat he handed out to Ollie and me as we sat on the wagon-tongue, while he sat on the dash-board.  We were half-way through dinner when we heard a peculiar whine, followed by a low bark, in the wagon, and then Snoozer leaped out, stretched himself, and began to wag his tail so fast that it looked exactly like a whirling feather duster.  We fed him on pancakes, and he ate so many that if Jack had not fried some more we’d have certainly gone hungry.