ARRIVED at St. Joe, the town was found to be crowded, owing to some local celebration. At the first two hotels our two travelers were unable to gain admittance. At the third they were obliged to share a room with a third guest, already in possession.

Tom did not particularly care, as long as there was a comfortable bed to sleep in, but Mr. Burnett seemed very much annoyed.

“Can’t you do any better for us?” he asked the clerk.

The clerk shook his head.

“I don’t know about taking the room; I don’t like to be with a stranger.”

“Just as you like, major,” said the clerk, indifferently. “We sha’n’t have any trouble in letting the room.”

It is a Western fashion to bestow titles on strangers, and this accounts for Burnett being dubbed major.

Percy Burnett hesitated, but just then another party applied for a room, and he hastily agreed to take it.

The room was a fair one. It contained two beds, one large and one small one. Naturally Tom and his new acquaintance selected the large one. The other was to132 be occupied by the stranger, who proved to be a stout man of middle age, who looked as if he had led an out-of-door life. A little conversation revealed the fact that he, too, was on his way to California.

“That’s lucky,” he said, in a free, cordial way, “why can’t we hitch horses?”

“I don’t understand you,” said Burnett, coldly.

“I mean, why can’t we go together? We shall find it more social.”

“I will think of it,” said Burnett, curtly.

Tom was pleased with the appearance and manner of their fellow room-mate, who gave his name as Peter Brush. He was not a man of education, but he seemed good-natured and gifted with a fund of common sense. He was a practical hunter, was familiar with the great middle region over which they must pass on their way to California, and told Tom a good many stories of his adventures upon the plains.

“Have you ever been to California?” asked Tom.

“There you’ve got me,” answered Mr. Brush. “I’ve been as far as Utah, but I haven’t been any farther. I ’spose I should have gone, but my wife was kind of sickly, and I didn’t want to be gone so long. Now she’s dead, and I’ve got nothing to tie me down.”

“Haven’t you any children?” asked our hero.

“Yes, I’ve got a youngster about thirteen. I’ve left him at school in St. Louis. He’s stayin’ with an uncle—his mother’s brother. I want h............