he open as the backers of the
Oregon Trunk. By a matter of hours a precious scoop was ancient history!

That man built much of the Panama Canal. He is one of the world's
best-known construction engineers and railroaders. But I shall never
forgive his tell-tale interview--it was premature. And some day I shall
present for payment that voucher for $1.40, mentioning also the dollar I
gave the driver, to John F. Stevens.

CHAPTER VI

The Home Makers

The horses are ill mated, the wagon decrepit. Baling wire sustains the
harness and the patched canvas of the wagon top hints of long service.

"How far to Millican's?" says the driver.

He is a young man; at least, his eyes are young. His "woman" is with him
and their three kiddies, the tiniest asleep in her mother's lap, with
the dust caked about her wet baby chin. The man wears overalls, the
woman calico that was gaudy once before the sun bleached it colorless,
and the children nameless garments of uncertain ancestry. The wife seems
very tired--as weary as the weary horses. Behind them is piled their
household: bedding, a tin stove, chairs, a cream separator, a baby's
go-cart, kitchen utensils, a plow and barbed wire, some carpet; beneath
the wagon body swings a pail and lantern, and water barrel and axe are
lashed at one side.

We direct them to Millican's.

"Homesteading?" we inquire.

"Not exactly. That is, we're just lookin'."

There are hundreds like these all over the West, "just lookin'," with
their tired wives, their babies, their poverty, and their vague
hopefulness. They chase rainbows from Bisbee to Prince Rupert. Some of
them settle, some of them succeed. But most of them are discontented
wherever Fortune places them, and forever move forward toward some
new-rumored El Dorado just over the hill.

There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.

That, of course, is rather picturesque, and, taken all in all, your
average wanderer of the wagon road merits little heroics. His
aspirations are apt to be earthy, and too often he seeks nothing loftier
than a soft snap. In the final analysis some of our western gypsies
desire nothing more ardently than a rest.

The wandere