Camping in the lonely timber,

Sleeping on the scorching plain,

Bearing heat and thirst and hunger,

Sore fatigue and wind and rain--

Halting only when the telltale

Mark was missing in the track;

Only when he called a greeting,

As he passed some settler's shack;

Till the valley and its timber

Vanished, where the rolling sward

Of the westward-sweeping prairie

Marks the trail 'cross Mingo's ford.

7  

Here for hours he searched the crossing

And the wheel-ruts leading on

To the north, a full day's journey,

But the guiding mark was gone.

Not a vestige here remaining

Of the sign that could be told,

For old Mac had traveled swiftly

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