t of desert plains which, though abounding in game, is all but
destitute of timber. In consequence of this fact, young Wilkinson and I
agreed with Pike that the arid waste is destined to serve forever as the
Western boundary of the Republic's settled population.

About the middle of September I was sent on ahead of the party to the
Pawnee Republic, accompanied by a young Pawnee called Frank, one of the
half-dozen of his people attached to the expedition at St. Louis. We
were well mounted, and travelled rapidly in a northwesterly direction,
across the lower fork of the Kansas River and the three branches which
flow into the Republican Fork from the south and west.

At first we kept a sharp outlook for hunting and war parties of the
Kans, who at the time were not on the best of terms with their cousins
the Osages. But throughout our trip we saw nothing more dangerous than
the numerous panthers which thrive on the superabundant game. Though
bold, these tawny beasts were too well fed to trouble us. The same was
true of the gray wolves, a small pack of which followed us day after day
to feast upon the carcasses of the buffaloes we killed.

Evening of the fourth day brought us into the vicinity of the Pawnee
Republic. We were riding along over a broken, hilly country, and my
savage companion was telling me, in a mixture of bad French and worse
English, that we should soon come within sight of the Republican Fork
and his home village, when suddenly we rode into a broad track which
could only have been made by a large body of horsemen, over two hundred
at the very least.

"Hold!" I cried, reining up and pointing at the signs. "Look. Many
people went south, on horses, two or three weeks ago. Your people? They
have gone to the Arkansas?"

"_Non!_" grunted Frank, and leaping off, he caught up and handed to me a
tent pin. "Pawnee? _non!_ Stick no grow in Pawnee hunting-ground. White
man's knife cut him. _Voila!_"

"White man!" I repeated in amazement.

How was it possible that there could have been so large a party of white
men traversing this remote wilderness? As I sat staring at the wooden
pin, studying its grain and shape, Frank circled around through the
beaten grass in search of further signs. A guttural cry from him
compelled my attention.

He was holding up a broken spur.

"Espana!" he called.

One glance was enough to convince me that he was not mistaken. The spur
was of Spanish make.

More puzzled than ever,