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58 THE HOUSE THAT SHADOWS BTJILT
stretch of rolling prairie land traversed by a water course. Morris mounted and rode over it. His horse’s hoofs threw up black richness. “Here we stay!” he said. Before they went to bed in the immigrant wagon they had found the government markers which designated the first of their four quarter-sections.
Next morning they set themselves to put up their shack. Morris loved mechanics; he had been looking forward to that. They had staked out the horses to spare timbers and let them graze. But spring in South Dakota was more backward than they thought. The new shoots of grass made poor pickings. So at about noon Herman Kaufmann mounted, rode three miles to the nearest habitation, and bought a load of hay for immediate delivery. Just at dusk, when they were nailing into place the last length of tar paper, the hay arrived.
Now they had in their string a half-broken bronco with a talent for trouble. When the hay wagon came creaking over the hill he took that excuse to snort, rear, and bolt, dragging the timber. His tether pulled loose. And the other horses caught the contagion as horses will. They, too, pulled their ropes loose from the timbers. Morris and Herman ran after them. The horses coquetted with their pursuers, stopping to graze, and then when the chase came close, galloping away again. So it went, mile after mile across the trackless prairie while a clear, dark night settled down and a cold wind, spring