"
"Well," said Ollie, "I don't see any b'ar-meat, or even
prairie-chicken-meat. Why didn't you hit the prairie-chicken,
Uncle Jack?"
"I'm not used to shooting at such small game," answered Jack,
solemnly. "My kind of game is b'ar--b'ar and other varmints."
Just then we passed a house, and down a little way from it,
close to the road, was a well.
"Here's a good place to have dinner," said Jack; so we drove
out by the side of the road and stopped. "If I'm to be cook,"
said Jack to me, "then you've got to take care of the horses and
do all the outside work. I'll be cook; you'll be rancher. That's
what we'll call you--rancher."
I unhitched the horses, tied them behind the wagon, and gave
them some oats and corn in the feed-box. The pony I fed in the
big tin pail near by. The grass beside the road was so dry, and
it was so windy, that we decided it was not safe to build a fire
outdoors, so Jack cooked pancakes over the oil-stove inside.
These with some cold meat he handed out to Ollie and me as we sat
on the wagon-tongue, while he sat on the dash-board.
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