\ 

 THE SMOKY HILL TRAIL. 31 



Ruffians " ripened on gallows trees, or fell by the 

 sword, years ago. A few, however, are yet spared, 

 to cheer their old age by riding around in desolate 

 woods at midnight, wrapped in damp nightgowns, 

 and masked in grinning death-heads. Although the 

 mists of shadow-land are chilling their hearts, yet 

 those organs, at the cry of blood, beat quick again, 

 like regimental drums, for action. 



The Kaw or the Kansas River, the valley of which 

 we were traversing, is the principal stream of the 

 State — in length to the mouth of the Republican one 

 hundred and fifty miles, and above that, under the 

 name of Smoky Hill, three hundred miles more. 



The "Smoky Hill trail" is a familiar name in 

 many an American home. It was the great Califor- 

 nia path, and many a time the demons of the plain 

 gloated over fair hair, yet fresh from a mother's touch 

 and blessing. And many a faint and thirsty trav- 

 eler has flung himself with a burst of gratitude on 

 the sandy bed of the desolate river, and thanked the 

 Great Giver of all good for the concealed life found 

 under the sand, and with the strength thus sucked 

 from the bosom of our much-abused mother, he has 

 pushed onward until at length the grand mountains 

 and great parks of Colorado burst upon his delighted 

 vision. 



About noon w r e arrived at Topeka, the capital, 

 well situated on the south bank of the river, having 

 a comfortable, well-to-do air, which suggests the quiet 

 satisfaction of an honest burgher after a morning of 

 toil. The slavery billow of agitation rolled even thus 

 far from beyond the border of the state. Armed men 



