coach whirled away, in a cloud of dust, leaving Whitey standing in the
lonely road, looking off over the lonelier prairie.

But nothing was to be gained by that, and he started along the trail,
which really was a little-used wagon track. And as he walked he thought
about Bill Jordan, and his conclusions were none too pleasant. He did
not suspect that this was part of a deep-laid plot of Bill's. Rather he
thought that, as the driver had said, this was one of Bill's jokes, and
he could fancy Bill and Jim Walker and Buck Higgins and the others
chuckling over the trick, and Whitey planned how he would get even with
Bill when he returned. He little guessed how long it would be before
that return, and how many events would intervene to drive thoughts of
revenge from his mind.

And Whitey trudged on and on, and the walking was very bad, for there
had been a succession of heavy rains, almost cloud-bursts, that had made
the road soggy. And for several miles the trail led through rocky hills,
and there the walking was even worse, for the rains had washed the
earth out of the trails, leaving a series of sharp stones that certainly
were hard on moccasin-clad feet. And the harder the trail was, the
harder became Whitey's opinion of Bill Jordan and his jokes.

Darkness comes late in that northern country, and it was dusk when
Whitey had another unpleasant surprise, for he came to the Zumbro, and a
sight met his eyes that would have made almost any grown-up stand back
and look a lot. She wasn't a creek, she was a river; no, she wasn't a
river, she was a rearing, roaring, raging torrent, owing to the rains
and floods that had filled the banks to overflowing.

And this wasn't the worst of it. Where was Cal Smith's ranch, a mile