ble, was in the marrow of their
bones. The makeshifts of the wagon, the adventures of the road, were the
only home they craved. The spring after Sally's marriage they set forth
for California, the year following for New Mexico, and still sighed for
new worlds to visit. They were happier now that Sally, the one element of
discontent, had been removed from their perennial journeying by the
merciful dispensation of marriage. Old Tumlin, his wife, and the son gave
themselves up more than ever to the day-dreams of the road, the freedom of
the open country, and the spirit of adventure.

Rodney's squaw wife was taken in by some neighbors, good folk who were
conversant with all phases of the romance. They stood by her in her hour
of trial, and afterwards continued to keep her as a servant. Her son Jim
grew up with their own children. When he was four years of age his mother,
Singing Stream, died, and Sally persuaded her husband to take young Jim
into their own home, partly as a sop to neighborly criticism, partly as a
salve to her own conscience. Sally had children of her own, and looked at
things differently now from the time when she fought the squaw for
Rodney's favor.

Jim's foster-parents were, in truth, glad to part with him. From his
earliest babyhood he had been known as a "limb of Satan." He was an
Ishmael by every instinct of his being. And Mrs. Warren Rodney, _nee_
Tumlin, felt that in dealing with him, in her capacity of step-mother, she
daily expiated any offence that she might have done to his mother.

Sally grew slatternly with increasing maternity. She spent her time in a
rocking-chair, dipping snuff--a consolation imported from her former
home--and lamenting the bad marriage she had made. Rodney ascribed his
ill-fortune to unjust neighborly criticism. He farmed a little, he raised
a little stock, and he drank a great deal of whiskey. Sally hated the
Black Hill country. She felt that it knew too much about her. The
neighborly inquisition had fallen like a blight on the family fortunes. A
vague migratory impulse was on her. She wanted to go somewhere and begin
all over again. By dint of persistent nagging she persuaded her husband to
move to Wyoming, then in the golden age of the cattle industry. Those were
days when steers, to speak in the cow language, had "jumped to
seventy-five." The wilderness grew light-headed with prosperity. Wonderful
are the tales still told about those fat years in cattle-land. It was