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But all their talking did not mean anything to the enormous silence of that prairie.
All that afternoon they went on, mile after mile, never seeing a house or any sign of people, never seeing anything but grass and sky. The trail they followed was marked only by bent and broken grasses.
Laura saw old Indian trails and buffalo paths worn deep in the ground and now grassed over. She saw strange large depressions, straight-sided and flat-bottomed, that had been buffalo wallows, where now the grass was growing. Laura had never seen a buffalo, and Pa said it was not likely that she would ever see one. Only a little while before the vast herds of thousands of buffaloes had grazed over this country. They had been the Indians’ cattle, and white men had slaughtered them all.
On every side now the prairie stretched away empty to far, clear skyline. The wind never stopped blowing, waving the tall prairie grasses that had turned brown in the sun. And all the afternoon, while Pa kept driving onward, he was merrily whistling or singing. The song he sang oftenest was:
“Oh, come to this country,
And don’t you feel alarm,
For Uncle Sam is rich enough
To give us all a farm!”
Even baby Grace joined in the chorus, though she did not bother to follow the tune.
“Oh, come away! Come away!
Come away, I say!
Oh, come away! Come away!
Come right away!
Oh, come to this country
And have no fear of harm
Our Uncle Sam is rich enough
To give us all a farm!”
The sun was lowering in the west when a rider appeared on the prairie behind the wagon. He came following behind not very fast, but coming a little nearer mile after mile while the sun was slowly sinking.
“How much farther is it to Silver Lake, Charles?” Ma asked.
“About ten miles,” said Pa.
“There isn’t anybody living nearer, is there?”
“No,” said Pa.
Ma did not say anything more. Neither did anyone else. They kept glancing back at that rider behind them, and each time they looked, he was a little nearer. He was surely following them and not meaning to overtake them until the sun sank. The sun was so low that every hollow between the low prairie swells was filled with shadow.
Each time that Pa glanced back, his hand made a little motion, slapping the horses with the lines to hurry them. But no team could pull a loaded wagon as fast as a man could ride.
The man was so near now that Laura could see two pistols in leather holsters on his hips. His hat was pulled low over his eyes, and a red bandana was tied loosely around his neck.
Pa had brought his gun west, but it was not in the wagon now. Laura wondered where it was, but she did not ask Pa.
She looked back again and saw another rider coming on a white horse. He wore a red shirt. He and the white horse were far behind and small, but they came fast, galloping. They overtook the first rider, and the two came on together.
Ma said in a low voice, “There’s two of them now, Charles.”
Mary asked frightened, “What is it? Laura, what’s the matter?”
Pa looked back quickly, and then he was comfortable. “Everything’s all right now,” he said. “That’s Big Jerry.”
