an earlier acquaintance of Western cities had years before taught me to
comprehend such phrases. In the autumn of 1867 I had visited the prairies
of Nebraska, along the banks of the Platte River. Buffalo were numerous
on the sandy plains which form the hunting-grounds of the Shienne and
Arapahoe Indians, and amongst the vast herds the bright October days
passed quickly enough. One day, in company with an American officer, we
were following, as usual, a herd of buffalo, when we came upon a town
standing silent and deserted in the middle the Trairie. "That," said the
American, "is Kearney City; it did a good trade in the old wagon times,
but it busted up when the railroad went on farther west; the people moved
on to North Platte and Julesburg--guess there's only one man left in it
now, and he's got snakes in his boots the hull season." Marvelling what
manner of man this might be who dwelt alone in the silent city, we rode
on. One house showed some traces of occupation, and in this house dwelt
the man. We had passed through the deserted grass-grown street, and were
again on the prairie, when a shot rang out behind us, the bullet cutting
up the dust away to the left. "By G---- he's on the shoot," cried our
friend; "ride, boys!" and so we rode. Much has been written and said of
cities old and new, of Aztec and Peruvian monuments, but I venture to
offer to the attention of the future historian of America this sample of
the busted up city of Kearney and its solitary indweller, who had snakes
in his boots and was on the shoot.

After that explanation of a "busted-up" and "gone-on" city, I was of
course sufficiently well "posted" not to require further explanation as
to the fate of Pine and Rush Cities; but had I entertained any doubts
upon the subject, the final stoppage of the train at Moose Lake, or City,
would have effectually dispelled them. For there stood the portions of
Rush and Pine Cities which had not "bust up," but had simply "gone
on." Two shanties, with a few outlying sheds, stood on either side of the