We had finished dinner when we noticed a flock of
big birds circling about the little valley, and, on looking
closer, saw that some of them were on the ground.
"They are sand-hill cranes," said Jack. "I've seen them in
Dakota, but this must be their home."
They were immense birds, white and gray, and with very long
legs. Jack took his rifle and tried to creep up on them, but they
were too shy, and soared away to the south.
We soon passed the first station on the railroad, called
Crookston. The telegraph-operator came out and looked at us,
admitted that it was a sandy neighborhood, and went back in. We
toiled on without any incident of note during the whole
afternoon. Toward night we passed another station, called
Georgia, and the man in charge allowed us to fill our kegs from
the water-tank.
[Illustration: First Night Camp in the Sand Hills]
We went on three or four miles and stopped beside the trail, and a
hundred yards from the railroad, for the night. The great drifts of
sand were all around us, and no desert could have been lonelier.
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