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“Very much disguised, certainly,” I acquiesced satirically. “They seem to me to belong to the class of a neighbour of ours down east. Her family is always in rags, because she says, ‘a hole is an accident, a patch is a disgrace,’ Set camp here if you like, Kate. But I’ll not sleep a wink with such neighbours.”

I cheerfully ate my words later on. Never were appearances more deceptive than in the case of those Stoneys. There is an old saying that many a kind heart beats behind a ragged coat. The Indians had no coats for their hearts to beat behind–nothing but shirts–some of them hadn’t even shirts! But the shirts were certainly ragged enough, and their hearts were kind.

Those Indians were gentlemen. They came forward and unhitched our horses, fed, and watered them; they pitched our tent, and built us a fire, and cut brush for our beds. Kate and I had simply nothing to do except sit on our rugs and tell them what we wanted done. They would have cooked our supper for us if we had allowed it. But, tired as we were, we drew the line at that. Their hearts were pure gold, but their hands! No, Kate and I dragged ourselves up and cooked our own suppers. And while we ate it, those Indians fell to and cleaned all the mud off our democrat for us. To crown all–it is almost unbelievable but it is true, I solemnly avow–they wouldn’t take a cent of payment for it all, urge them as we might and did.

“Well,” said Kate, as we curled up on our brush beds that night, “there certainly is a special Providence for unprotected females. I’d forgive Peter Crow for deserting us for the sake of those Indians, if he hadn’t stolen our lovely ham into the bargain. That was altogether unpardonable.”

In the morning the Indians broke camp for us and harnessed our shaganappies. We drove off, waving our hands to them, the delightful creatures. We never saw any of them again. I fear their kind is scarce, but as long as I live I shall remember those Stoneys with gratitude.

We got on fairly well that third day, and made about fifteen miles before dinner time. We ate three of the sergeant’s prairie chickens for dinner, and enjoyed them.

“But only think how delicious the ham would have been,” said Kate.

Our real troubles began that afternoon. We had not been driving long when the trail swooped down suddenly into a broad depression–a swamp, so full of mud-holes that there didn’t seem to be anything but mud-holes. We pulled through six of them–but in the seventh we stuck, hard and fast. Pull as our ponies could and did, they could not pull us out.

“What are we to do?” I said, becoming horribly frightened all at once. It seemed to me that our predicament was a dreadful one.

“Keep cool,” said Kate. She calmly took off her shoes and stockings, tucked up her skirt, and waded to the horses’ heads.

“Can’t I do anything?” I implored.

“Yes, take the whip and spare it not,” said Kate. “I’ll encourage them here with sundry tugs and inspiriting words. You urge them behind with a good lambasting.”

Accordingly we encouraged and urged, tugged and lambasted, with a right good will, but all to no effect. Our ponies did their best, but they could not pull the democrat out of that slough.

“Oh, what–” I began, and then I stopped. I resolved that I would not ask that question again in that tone in that scrape. I would be cheerful and courageous like Kate–splendid Kate!

“I shall have to unhitch them, tie one of them to that stump, and ride off on the other for help,” said Kate.

“Where to?” I asked.

“Till I find it,” grinned Kate, who seemed to think the whole disaster a capital joke. “I may have to go clean back to the tepees–and further. For that matter, I don’t believe there were any tepees. Those Indians were too good to be true–they were phantoms of delight–such stuff as dreams are made of. But even if they were real they won’t be there now–they’ll have folded their tents like the Arabs and as silently stolen away. But I’ll find help somewhere.”