nt spouse to go
out of her sight, she had secured pledges from Roosevelt guaranteeing
her three years' subsistence, in case the _wanderlust_ should once
more seize upon her protector and provider.

Roosevelt rode ahead of the caravan, spending the first night with the
Langs, who were always friendly and hospitable and full of good talk,
and rejoining Merrifield and "the outfit" on the Keogh trail a few
miles westward next morning. Slowly and laboriously the "prairie
schooner" lumbered along the uneven route. The weather was sultry, and
as they crossed the high divide which separated the Little Missouri
basin from the valley of the Little Beaver they saw ahead of them the
towering portents of storm. The northwest was already black, and in a
space of time that seemed incredibly brief the masses of cloud boiled
up and over the sky. The storm rolled toward them at furious speed,
extending its wings, as it came, as though to gather in its victims.

[Illustration: Group of Bad Lands citizens. "Old man" Lebo is the
second from the left, seated; to right of him is A. C. Huidekoper,
whose H. T. horse-ranch was famous; beside him is Hell-Roaring Bill
Jones; James Harmon is behind Huidekoper; at the right of the group
(standing) is Schuyler Lebo; at the left, standing beside the Indian
is Charles Mason, famous, above all, for his nickname which (with no
irreverent intent) was "Whistling Jesus."]

Against the dark background of the mass [Roosevelt wrote,
describing it later] could be seen pillars and clouds of
gray mist, whirled hither and thither by the wind, and
sheets of level rain driven before it. The edges of the
wings tossed to and fro, and the wind shrieked and moaned as
it swept over the prairie. It was a storm of unusual
intensity; the prairie fowl rose in flocks from before it,
scudding with spread wings toward the thickest cover, and
the herds of antelope ran across the plain like race-horses
to gather in the hollows and behind the low ridges.

We spurred hard to get out of the open, riding with loose
reins for the creek. The center of the storm swept by behind
us, fairly across our track, and we only got a wipe from the
tail of it. Yet this itself we could not have faced in the
open. The first gust caught us a few hundred yards from the
creek, almost taking us from the saddle, and driving the
rain and hail in stinging level sheets