something like a hand clapped over his mouth. Mr. Dunlap's wagon was not
in sight, 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