Dividing the Spoils
It is sixty-six miles across the strip, but another line is racing up from the south. Half-way, if they run so far, the unlucky ones in the two lines must meet, and turn back.
On they go, with now the fleet horsemen well out of sight ahead, and the prairie schooners as well out of sight behind. It is hot,—a hundred in the shade, and no shade; and dry,—no rain has fallen for weeks, and not a green thing is to be seen; no water anywhere, and a strong head wind.
There is smoke ahead—a prairie fire! The cowboys in advance, impelled by a cheerful desire to impede those following, have fired the dry prairie. The grass is short, and a prairie fire runs ahead of itself in spots; it is easy to get through the breaks in the fire-line—if the grass is short. But word comes along the line that the fire has caught a schooner in the tall grass of a ravine,—and there is one less family to people the new country.
The boomers are continually dropping off to plant their little flags—some one will get this land, and why not they? Here a man finds himself in a wide stretch with no one near; he "strikes," then leisurely searches for the corner-stone. A school section. "Damn!" And he has no second chance, for the line has swept past him.
Four sections out of every thirty-six reserved for school and county funds, but with nothing to distinguish them; so one out of nine of the successful
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