Till the valley and its timber
Vanished, where the rolling sward
Of the westward-sweeping prairie
Marks the trail 'cross Mingo's ford.


7

Here for hours he searched the crossing
And the wheel-ruts leading on
To the north, a full day's journey,
But the guiding mark was gone.
Not a vestige here remaining
Of the sign that could be told,
For old Mac had traveled swiftly
And the trail was mixed and old.
Two whole days Bill searched and waited,
Hoping for some other clew,
Weighing questions of direction,
Undecided what to do.
Till, one night, while cooking supper
By the camp-fire's genial glow,
He was startled by a stranger's
Sudden presence and "Hello!"


8

Tall of stature, dark of visage,
By the wind well dried and tanned,