ere were no women or children in
these camps, and the hardy men had been so well seasoned by their past
experiences, journeying to this far western part of the Territory,
that they did not mind the exposure of sleeping on the ground and
under the open skies. Soldiers from the fort, off duty and curious to
hear the news from the outer world, came lounging around the camps and
chatted with the emigrants in that cool, superior manner that marks
the private soldier when he meets a civilian on equal footing, away
from the haunts of men.

The boys regarded these uniformed military servants of the Government
of the United States with great respect, and even with some awe.
These, they thought to themselves, were the men who were there to
fight Indians, to protect the border, and to keep back the rising tide
of wild hostilities that might, if it were not for them, sweep down
upon the feeble Territory and even inundate the whole Western
country.

"Perhaps some of Black Hawk's descendants are among the Indians on
this very frontier," said Oscar, impressively. "And these gold-laced
chaps, with shoulder-straps on, are the Zack Taylors and the Robert
Andersons who do the fighting," added Charlie, with a laugh.

Making a few small purchases from the surly sutler of Fort Riley, and
then canvassing with the emigrants around the reservation the question
of routes and locations, our friends passed the forenoon. The elders
of the party had anxiously discussed the comparative merits of the
Smoky Hill and the Republican Fork country and had finally yielded to
the attractions of a cabin ready-built in Younkins's neighborhood,
with a garden patch attached, and had decided to go in that
direction.

"This is simply bully!" said Sandy Howell, as the little caravan
turned to the right and drove up the north bank of the Republican
Fork.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE SETTLERS AT HOME.

A wide, shallow river, whose turbid waters were yellow with the
freshets of early summer, shadowed by tall and sweeping cottonwoods
and water-maples; shores gently sloping to the current, save where a
tall and rocky bluff broke the prospect up stream; thickets of oaks,
alders, sycamores, and persimmons--this was the scene on which the
Illinois emigrants arrived, as they journeyed to their new home in the
far West. On the north bank of the river, only a few hundred rods from
the stream, was the log-cabin of Younkins. It was built on the edge of
a fine bit of t