four in the morning
The month of June , so far , had been exceedingly droughty . The scarcity of water on the plains between Dodge and Ogalalla was the dread of every trail drover . The grass , on the other hand , had matured from the first rank growth of early spring into a forage , rich in sustenance , from which our beeves took on flesh and rounded into beauties . Lack of water being the one drawback , long drives , not in miles but hours , became the order of the day ; from four in the morning to eight at night , even at an ox 's pace , leaves every landmark of the day far in the rear at nightfall . Thus for the next few days we moved forward , the monotony of existence broken only by the great variety of mirage , the glare of heat-waves , and the silent signal in the sky of other voyageurs like ourselves . On reaching Pig Boggy , nothing but pools greeted us , while the regular crossing was dry and dusty and paved with cattle bones . My curiosity was strong enough to cause me to revisit the old bridge which I had helped to build two seasons before ; though unused , it was still intact , a credit to the crude engineering of Pete Slaughter .