The Young Forester | Page 5

awake--when
we crossed the Mississippi--I was slumbering soundly, and so missed
it.
"I'll bet I don't miss it coming back," I vowed.
The sight of the Missouri, however, somewhat repaid me for the loss.
What a muddy, wide river! And I thought of the thousands of miles of
country it drained, and of the forests there must be at its source. Then
came the never-ending Kansas corn-fields. I do not know whether it
was their length or their treeless monotony, but I grew tired looking at
them.
From then on I began to take some notice of my fellow-travelers. The
conductor proved to be an agreeable old fellow; and the train-boy,
though I mistrusted his advances because he tried to sell me everything
from chewing-gum to mining stock, turned out to be pretty good
company. The Negro porter had such a jolly voice and laugh that I
talked to him whenever I got the chance. Then occasional passengers
occupied the seat opposite me from town to town. They were much
alike, all sunburned and loud-voiced, and it looked as though they had
all bought their high boots and wide hats at the same shop.
The last traveller to face me was a very heavy man with a great bullet
head and a shock of light hair. His blue eyes had a bold flash, his long
mustache drooped, and there was something about him that I did not
like. He wore a huge diamond in the bosom of his flannel shirt, and a
leather watch-chain that was thick and strong enough to have held up a
town-clock.
"Hot," he said, as he mopped his moist brow.

"Not so hot as it was," I replied.
"Sure not. We're climbin' a little. He's whistlin' for Dodge City now."
"Dodge City?" I echoed, with interest. The name brought back vivid
scenes from certain yellow-backed volumes, and certain uncomfortable
memories of my father's displeasure. "Isn't this the old cattle town
where there used to be so many fights?"
"Sure. An' not so very long ago. Here, look out the window." He
clapped his big hand on my knee; then pointed. "See that hill there.
Dead Man's Hill it was once, where they buried the fellers as died with
their boots on."
I stared, and even stretched my neck out of the window.
"Yes, old Dodge was sure lively," he continued, as our train passed on.
"I seen a little mix-up there myself in the early eighties. Five
cow-punchers, friends they was, had been visitin' town. One feller,
playful-like, takes another feller's quirt--that's a whip. An' the other
feller, playful-like, says, 'Give it back.' Then they tussles for it, an' rolls
on the ground. I was laughin', as was everybody, when, suddenly, the
owner of the quirt thumps his friend. Both cowboys got up, slow, an'
watchin' of each other. Then the first feller, who had started the play,
pulls his gun. He'd hardly flashed it when they all pulls guns, an' it was
some noisy an' smoky. In about five seconds there was five dead
cowpunchers. Killed themselves, as you might say, just for fun. That's
what life was worth in old Dodge." After this story I felt more kindly
disposed ward my travelling companion, and would have asked for
more romances but the conductor came along and engaged him in
conversation. Then my neighbor across the aisle, a young fellow not
much older than myself, asked me to talk to him.
"Why, yes, if you like," I replied, in surprise. He was pale; there were
red spots in his cheeks, and dark lines under his weary eyes.
"You look so strong and eager that it's done me good to watch you," he
explained, with a sad smile. "You see--I'm sick."

I told him I was very sorry, and hoped he would get well soon.
"I ought to have come West sooner," he replied, "but I couldn't get the
money."
He looked up at me and then out of the window at the sun setting red
across the plains. I tried to make him think of something beside himself,
but I made a mess of it. The meeting with him was a shock to me. Long
after dark, when I had stretched out for the night, I kept thinking of him
and contrasting what I had to look forward to with his dismal future.
Somehow it did not seem fair, and I could not get rid of the idea that I
was selfish.
Next day I had my first sight of real mountains. And the Pennsylvania
hills, that all my life had appeared so high, dwindled to nothing. At
Trinidad, where we stopped for breakfast, I walked out on the platform
sniffing at the keen thin air. When we crossed the Raton Mountains
into New Mexico the