ht, but its owner came out at the front door and greeted me in a
very friendly way.

"What makes you call this a station?" I asked of Thatcher.

Dunlap looked at him sternly.

"I forgot myself," said Thatcher, more to Dunlap than to me.

"Never mind," replied Dunlap. "If I can tell B from a bull's foot, it's
all right."

Then turning to me he said, "The old lady inside has a meal of victuals
ready for us. Come in and we'll let into it."

There was nothing said at the meal which explained the things that were
so blind to me; but there was a good deal of talk about rifles. The
farmer was named Preston, a middle-aged man who shaved all his beard
except what grew under his chin, which hung down in a long black fringe
over his breast like a window-lambrequin. His wife's father, who was an
old Welshman named Evans, had worked in the lead mines over toward
Dubuque, until Preston had married his daughter and taken up his farm in
the oak openings. They had been shooting at a mark that afternoon, with
Sharp's rifles carried by Dunlap and Thatcher, and the old-fashioned
squirrel rifles owned on the farm. After supper they brought out these
rifles and compared them. Preston insisted that the squirrel rifles
were better.

"Not for real service," said Dunlap, throwing a cartridge into the
breech of the Sharp, and ejecting it to show how fast it could be done.

"But I can roll a squirrel's eye right out of his head most every time
with the old-style gun," said Preston. "This is the gun that won the
Battle of New Orleans."

"It wouldn't have won against the Sharp," said Thatcher; "and you know
we expect to have a larger mark than a squirrel's head, when we get
to Kansas."

This was the first breech-loader I had ever seen, and I looked it over
with a buying eye. It didn't seem to me that it would be much better for
hunting than the old-fashioned rifle, loaded with powder and a molded
bullet rammed down with a patch of oiled cloth around it; for after you
have shot at your game once, you either have hit it, or it runs or flies
away. If you have hit it, you can generally get it, and if it goes away,
you have time to reload. Besides those big cartridges must be costly, I
thought, and said so to Mr. Dunlap.

"When you're hunting Border Ruffians," said he, "a little expense don't
count one way or the other; and you may be willing to pay dear for a
chance to reload three or four times while the other man is ramming home
a new ch