snatched the polished cane from the hand of Toots Nelson and with unerring accuracy, launched the stick in such a way as to cause it to become entangled in the feet of the fleeing thief. Stripland fell to the ground, whereupon Mrs. Rittenhouse’s purse was recovered and the brigand taken into custody.
This newspaper has learned that Duff MacCallister is more than a mere visitor from Scotland and has, indeed, immigrated to America. He and his cousin Falcon departed the city recently en route to Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory, where Duff MacCallister intends to homestead land and begin the life of a rancher.
Long an admirer of the MacCallisters, from the one whose statue now graces our fair city and after whom our city is named, to his noble sons: Jamie Ian, Matthew, Morgan, and Falcon, his daughters, Kathleen, Megan, and Joleen, and of course, Andrew and Rosanna, whose stars shine in a much broader universe, this editor wishes Duff much success.
“Back on the train,” Malcolm ordered.
“Back on the train? What for?” Pettigrew asked. “We’ve just got the horses saddled, and I’ve had about enough train ridin’.”
“You want MacCallister?”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“He’s not here,” Malcolm said. “He’s in a place called Cheyenne, Wyoming.”
“Damn,” Moran said. “That’s a long way from here.”
“Then best we get started,” McKenna said.
“Right,” Malcolm said.
“This ridin’ a train around all the time is goin’ to get expensive, ain’t it?” Carter Hill asked.
“Why should that matter to you, since I am paying for the tickets?”
Carter Hill chuckled. “Yeah, you are, ain’t you? I just said that so’s you know that we ain’t none of us goin’ to be payin’ for it.”
Once more Duff and Falcon boarded a train, but this time their trip would be a short one. It was only twenty- four miles to Tracy. There they would leave the train, then go by horse for the fifty miles to Chugwater. Though they checked their baggage and their horses, Duff, as he had before, carried the bagpipes with him, for fear they would be damaged by mistreatment in the baggage car.
As soon as they were settled in their seats, Duff opened his book and began reading.
“I’ve seen you reading that book before. What is it about that it holds your interest so?” Falcon asked.
“It is the
Duff handed the book to Falcon, and Falcon began to read.
VALLEY OF THE CHUGWATER
The Chugwater Valley is about 100 miles long. It has been for many years a favorite locality for wintering stock, not only on account of the excellence of the grass and water, but also from the fact that the climate is mild throughout the winter. Cattle and horses thrive well all winter without hay or shelter. The broad valley is protected from strong cold winds by high walls or bluffs. The soil everywhere is fertile, and wherever the surface can be irrigated, good crops of all kinds of cereals and hardy vegetables can be raised without difficulty.
In this valley and near the source of the Chugwater, are thousands of tons of iron ore, indicating vast extent and richness which can be made easily accessible whenever desirable to construct a railroad to Montana.
“Where did you get this book?” Falcon asked after reading the passage Duff had just pointed out to him.
“I bought it at the depot in Omaha when I changed trains,” Duff said. “It has been a source of invaluable information.”
Falcon chuckled.
“What is wrong?”
“The railroads have a vested interest in settling the West as quickly as they can,” Falcon said. “The more people there are out here, the more the demand for transportation, not only of people, but of goods.”
“Would you be for suggesting now that the information is all false?”
“No, I’m not saying that it is all false,” Falcon said. “I’m not even saying that it is mostly false. I am saying, though, that they are going to make all of their descriptions sound as inviting as they can.”
“Is the land good for cattle or not?”
“Yes, I’m sure it is. And, I’m sure that the mountains will make the winters somewhat more bearable by blocking the worst of the north winds. But don’t make the mistake of thinking that the winter will be mild because, cousin, it will not be.”
“I hold no such illusion,” Duff said.
Though they had only twenty-four miles to travel, they had taken passage on a local, so it made stops at Archer, Hilsdale, and Burns. At Burns, they were shunted onto a side track so the express could come through. Duff watched through the window as the express train, traveling at full speed, barreled through the little town, smoke pouring from the stack, steam streaming from the actuating cylinders, the big driver wheels spinning so fast as to be a blur.
Not until the express had passed through did the local resume its own journey, once more moving out onto the track that it shared with all the other trains. Duff knew that only precise scheduling and perfect timing allowed such a thing. He shuddered to think what would have happened if they had not been shunted off to a sidetrack at just the right time.
It was a ten-mile run from Burns to Tracy and they made that final ten miles in just over half an hour, arriving in Tracy nearly two hours after they departed Cheyenne. At Tracy, Duff and Falcon disembarked and retrieved their baggage and horses. Saddling their horses, they started north, following the map that had been provided by the land office in Cheyenne. The first creek they crossed was identified on the map as Spring Creek. Checking the area around them, they saw a mesa rising in the west. They found the mesa, which though unnamed, did appear on the map, so they were certain they were on the right course. It was late afternoon when they reached Little Bear
