he bed," I said.

He looked back, and said, "Well, I owe you something for your honesty.
I never'd have seen him. Sick?"

"Not very," said I. "Don't like the water."

"Some are that way," he returned, and went on collecting fares.

As we drove up from the landing, through the rutted streets of the old
mining and Indian-trading town, the black-bearded man came to me as we
stopped, held back by a jam of covered wagons--a wonderful sight, even
to me--and as if talking to me, said to the woman, "You'd better ride on
through town;" and then to me, "Are you going on through?"

"I've got to buy some supplies," said I; "but I've nothing to stop me
but that."

"Tell me what you want," he said hurriedly, and looking about as if
expecting some danger, "and I'll buy it for you and bring it on. Which
way are you going?"

"West into Iowa," I answered.

"Go on," said he, "and I'll make it right with you. Camp somewhere west
of town. I'll come along to-night or to-morrow. I'll make it right
with you."

"I don't see through this," I said, with my usual indecision as to doing
something I did not understand. "I thought I'd look around Dubuque
a little."

"For God's sake," said the woman from the bed, "take me on--take me on!"

Her tones were so pleading, she seemed in such an agony of terror, that
I suddenly made up my mind in her favor. Surely there would be no harm
in carrying her on as she wished.

"All right," I said to her, but looking at him, "I'll take you on! You
can count on me." And then to him, "I'll drive on until I find a good
camping-place late this afternoon. You'll have to find us the best
way you can."

He thanked me, and I gave him a list of the things I wanted. Then he
went on up the street ahead of us, walking calmly, and looking about him
as any stranger might have done. We stood for some time, waiting for the
jam of teams to clear, and I gee-upped and whoa-hawed on along the
street, until we came to a building on which was a big sign,
"Post-Office." There was a queue of people waiting for their mail,
extending out at the door, and far down the sidewalk. In this string of
emigrants stood our friend, the black-bearded man. Just as we passed, a
rather thin, stooped man, walking along on the other side of the street,
rushed across, right in front of my lead team, and drawing a pistol,
aimed at the black-bearded man, who in turn stepped out of line and drew
his own weapon.

"I call upon you all to witne