CHAPTER 18 OF THE LOG OF A CALBOY by Andi Adams This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. THE NORTH PLAT It was now July. We had taken on new supplies at Ogallala, and a week afterwards the herd was snailing along the North Platte on its way to the land of the Blackfeet. It was always hard to get a herd past the supply point. We had the same trouble when we passed Dodge. Our long hours in the saddle, coupled with the monotony of our work, made these supply points of such interest to us that they were like oases in desert lands to devotees on pilgrimage to some consecrated shrine. We could have spent a week in Ogallala and enjoyed our visit every blessed moment of the time. But now, a week later, most of the headaches had disappeared, and we had settled down to our daily work. At Horse Creek, the last stream of water before entering Wyoming, a lad who cut the trail at that point for some cattle companies, after trimming us up, rode along for half a day through their range and told us of an accident which happened about a week before. The horse of some peeler, working with one of Shanghai Pierce's herds, acted up one morning and fell backwards with him so that his gun accidentally discharged. The outfit lay over a day and gave him as decent a burial as they could. We would find the new-made grave ahead on Squaw Creek, beyond the crossing to the right-hand side in a clump of cotton woods. The next day, while watering the herd at this creek, we all rode over and looked at the grave. The outfit had fixed things up quite nicely. They had built a square pen of rough cotton wood logs around the grave, and had marked the head and foot with a big, flat stone. Edged up, heaping up quite a mound of stones to keep the animals away. In a tree his name was cut. Sounded natural too, though none of us knew him, as Pierce always drove from the east coast country. There was nothing different about this grave from the hundreds of others which made landmarks on the Old Western Trail, except that it was the latest. That night around the campfire some of the boys were moved to tell their experiences. This accident might happen to any of us, and it seemed rather short notice to a man enjoying life, even though his calling was rough. "'As for myself,' said Rod Wheat, "'I'm not going to fret. You can't avoid it when it comes, and every now and then you miss it by a hair. I had an uncle who served four years in the Confederate army, went through thirty engagements, was wounded half a dozen times, and came home well and sound. Within a month after his return, a plow-handle kicked him in the side, and we buried him within a week. "'Oh well,' said Fox, commenting on the sudden call of the man whose grave we had seen. It won't make much of a difference to this fellow back here when the horned toots and the graves give up their dead. He might just as well start from there as anywhere. I don't envy him none, though. But if I had any pity to offer now it would be for a mother or sister who might wish that he slept nearer home." This last remark carried our minds far away from their present surroundings to other graves which were not on the trail. There was a long silence. We lay around the campfire and gazed into its depths, while its flickering light threw our shadows out beyond the circle. All revelry was finally broken by Ash Barrostone, who was by all odds the most impressionable and emotional one in the outfit, a man who always argued the moral side of every question, yet could not be credited with possessing an iota of moral stamina. Gloomy as we were he added to our depression by relating a pathetic incident which occurred at a child's funeral, when Flood reproved him, saying, "'Well, neither that one you mentioned nor this one of Pierce's man is any of our funeral. We're on the trail with Lovell's cattle. You should keep nearer the earth.'" There was a long silence after this reproof of the foreman. It was evident that there was a gloom settling over the outfit. Our thoughts were ranging wide. At last Rod Wheat spoke up and said that in order to get the benefit of all the variations the blues were not a bad thing to have. But the depression of our spirits was not so easily dismissed. In order to avoid listening to the gloomy tales that were being narrated around the campfire, a number of us got up and went out as if to look up the night horses on picket. The rebel and I pulled our picket pins and changed our horses to fresh grazing, and after lying down among the horses, out of hearing of the camp for over an hour, returned to the wagon expecting to retire. A number of the boys were making down their beds, as it was already late. But on our arrival at the fire one of the boys had just concluded a story as gloomy as the others which had preceded it. These stories you were telling tonight, said Flood, remind me of what Leege Link said to the book agent when he was shearing sheep. I recon said, Leege, that book of yours has a heapsight more poetry in it than there is in shearing sheep. I wish I had gone on guard tonight, so I could have missed these stories. At this juncture the first guard rode in, having been relieved, and John Officer, who had exchanged places on guard that night with Moss Strayhorn, remarked that the cattle were uneasy. This outfit said he, didn't half-water the herd to-day. One-third of them hasn't bed it down yet, and they don't act as if they aim to, either. There's no excuse for it in a well-watered country like this. I'll leave the saddle on my horse, anyhow. Now that's the result, said our foreman. Of the hour we spent around that grave today, when we ought to have been tending to our job. This outfit he continued when Officer returned from picking in his horse, have been trying to hold funeral services over that pierce man's grave back there. You'd think so, anyway, from the tales they've been telling. I hope you won't get the sniffles until any. This letting yourself get gloomy, said Officer, reminds me of a time we once had at the J. H. Camp in the Cherokee Strip. It was near Christmas and the work was all done up. The boys had blowed in their summer wages and were feeling glum all over. One or two of the boys were lamenting that they hadn't gone home to see the old folks. This gloomy feeling kept spreading until they actually wouldn't speak to each other. One of them would go out and sit on the woodpile for hours all by himself and make a new set of good resolutions. Another would go out and sit on the ground on the sunny side of the corrals and dig holes on the frozen earth with his knife. They wouldn't come to the meals when the cook called them. Now Miller the foreman didn't have any sympathy for them. In fact, he delighted to see them in that condition. He hadn't any use for a man who wasn't dead tough under any condition. I've known him to camp his outfit on alkali water, so the men would get out in the morning, and every rascal beg leave to ride on the outside circle, on the morning roundup. Well, three days before Christmas, just when things were looking gloomiest, they're drifted up from the Cheyenne country, one of the old timers. None of them had seen him in four years, though he had worked on that range before. And with the exception of myself they all knew him. He was riding the chuck line all right, but Miller gave him a welcome, as he was the real thing. He had been working out in the Panhandle country, New Mexico, and the devil knows where, since he had left that range. He was meaty with news and scary stories.  Miller was delighted with his guest. He had shown no signs of letting up at eleven o'clock the first night, when he happened to mention where he was the Christmas before. There was a little woman at the ranch, said he, wife of the owner, and I was helping her get up-dinner, as we had quite a number of folks at the ranch. She asked me to make the bear sign, doughnuts she called them, and I did, though she had to show me how some little. Well, fellas, you ought to have seen them. Just sweet enough, brown to a turn, and enough to last a week. All the folks at dinner that day praised them. Since then I've had a chance to try my hand several times, and you may not tumble to the diversity of all my accomplishments, but I am an artist on bear sign. Miller arose, took him by the hand, and said, That's straight now, is it? That's straight. Making bear sign is my long suit.  Throw his horse into the big pasture in the morning. He stays here until spring, and the first spear of green grass I see, his name goes on the payroll. This outfit is shy on men who can make bear sign. Now I was thinking that you could spread down your blankets on the hearth, but you can sleep with me tonight. You go to work on this specialty of yours right after breakfast in the morning, and show us what you can do in that line. They talked quite a while longer, and then turned in for the night. The next morning after breakfast was over he got the needed articles together and went to work. But there was a surprise in store for him. There was nearly a dozen men lying around, all able eaters. By ten o'clock he began to turn them out, as he said he could. When the regular cook had to have the stove to get dinner, the taste which we had had made us ravenous for more. Dinner over? He went at them again in earnest. A boy, riding towards the railroad with an important letter dropped in, and as he claimed he could only stop for a moment, we stood aside until he had had a taste. Though he filled himself like a poisoned pup. After eating a solid hour he filled his pockets and rode away. One of our regular men called after him, don't tell anybody what we got. We didn't get any supper that night. Not a man could have eaten a bite. Miller made him knock off along in the shank of the evening, as he had done enough for one day. The next morning after breakfast he fell to at the bear sign once more. Miller rolled a barrel of flour into the kitchen from the storehouse, and told him to fly at them. About how many do you think you'll want? asked our bear sign man. That big tub won't be any too many, answered Miller. Some of these fellows haven't had any of this kind of truck since they were little boys. If this gets out, I look for men from other camps. The fellow fell to his work like a thoroughbred, which he surely was. About ten o'clock two men rode up from a camp to the north, which the boy had passed the day before with the letter. They never went near the dugout but straight to the kitchen. That movement showed that they were on to the racket. An hour later, old Tom Cave rode in, his horse all in a lather, all the way from Garrettston's camp, twenty-five miles to the east. The old sinner said that he had been on the frontier some little time, and that these were the best bear sign he had tasted in forty years. He refused to take a stool and sit down like civilized folks, but stood up by the tub and picked out the ones which were a pale brown. After dinner our man threw off his over-shirt, unbuttoned his red undershirt, and turned it in until you could see the hair on his breast. Rolling up his sleeves, he flew at his job once more. He was getting his work reduced to a science by this time. He rolled his dough, cut his dough, and turned out the fine brown bear sign to the satisfaction of all. His capacity, however, was limited. About two o'clock Doc Langford and two of his peelers were seen riding up. When he came into the kitchen Doc swore, by all that was good and holy, that he hadn't heard that our artist had come back to that country. But any one that was noticing could see him edge around to the tub. It was easy to see that he was lying. This luck of ours was circulating faster than a secret amongst women. Our man, though, stood at his post like the boy on the burning deck. When night came on he hadn't covered the bottom of the tub. When he knocked off Doc Langford and his men gobbled up what was left. We gave them a mean look as they rode off. But they came back the next day five strong. Our regular men around the camp didn't like it the way things were going. They tried to act polite, too. Being Bear Sign's doughnuts interrupted Quinn's forest reminds me what? Will you kindly hobble your lip, said officer? I have the floor at present. As I was saying, they tried to act polite to company that way. But we hadn't got a smell the second day. Our man showed no signs of fatigue and told several good stories at night. He was tough. The next day was Christmas, but he had no respect for a holiday and made up a large batch of dough before breakfast. It was a good thing he did for early that morning. Original John Smith and four of his peelers rode in from the west, their horses all covered with frost. They must have started at daybreak. It was a good twenty-two mile ride. They wanted us to believe that they had simply come over to spend Christmas with us. Company that way, you can't say anything. But the easy manner in which they gravitated around that tub, not even waiting to be invited, told a different tale. They were not nearly satisfied by noon. Then who should come drifting in as we were sitting down the dinner, but Billy Dunlap and Jim Hale from Quinlan's camp, thirty miles south on the Cimmeran.  He put up a thin excuse just like the rest. Anyone could see through it. But there it was again, he was company. Lots of us had eaten at his camp and complained of his chuck, therefore we were nice to him. Miller called our man out behind the kitchen and told him to knock off if he wanted to. But he wouldn't do it. He was clean strain. I'm not talking. Dunlap ate hardly any dinner we noticed, and the very first batch of bear sign turned out. He loads up a tin plate and goes out and sits behind the storehouse in the sun, all alone in his glory. He satisfied himself out of the tub after that. He and Hale stayed all night, and Dunlap kept everyone awake with the nightmares. Yes, kept fighting the demons all night. The next morning Miller told him that he was surprised that an old grey-haired man like him didn't know when he had had enough, but must gorge himself like some silly kid. Miller told him that he was welcome to stay a week if he wanted to, but he would have to sleep in the stable. It was cruel to the horses, but the men were entitled to a little sleep, at least in the winter. Miller tempered his remarks with all kindness, and Dunlap acted as if he was sorry and as good as admitted that his years were telling on him. That day our man filled his tub. He was simply an artist on bear sign. Calling bear sign donuts, cut in Quince Forest again, as soon as he saw an opening, reminds me of what the little boy said who went. But there came a rumbling of many hoofs from the bed-ground. There's hell for you, said half a dozen men in a chorus, and every man in camp ran for his horse but the cook, and he climbed into the wagon. The roar of the running cattle was like approaching thunder, but the flash from the six shooters of the men on guard indicated that they were quartering by camp, heading out towards the hills. Horses became so excited that they were difficult to bridle. There was plenty of earnest and sincere sweating done that night. All the fine sentiment and melancholy of the hour previous vanished in a moment, and the men threw themselves into their saddles, riding deep, for it was on certain footing to the horses. Within two minutes from the time the herd had left the bed-ground, fourteen of us rode on their left point and across their front, firing our six shooters in their faces. By the time the herd had covered a scant mile, we had thrown them into a mill. They had run so compactly that there were no stragglers, so we loosened out and gave them room. But it was a long time before they relaxed any, but continued going round and round like a water-wheel or an endless chain. The four men ordered three men on the heaviest horses to split them. The men rode out a short distance to get the required momentum, wheeled their horses, and wedge-shaped struck the sea of cattle and entered. But it instantly closed in their wake as though it had been water. For an hour they rode through the herd back and forth, now from this quarter, now from that, and finally the mill was broken. After midnight as luck would have it, heavy dark clouds banked in the northwest, and lightning flashed, and before a single animal had lain down, a drizzling rain set in. That settled it. It was an all-night job now. We drifted about hither and yawn. Horses, men, and cattle turned their backs to the wind and rain and waited for morning. We were so familiar with the signs of coming day that we turned them loose half an hour before dawn, leaving herders and rode for camp. As we groped our way in that dark hour before dawn, hungry, drenched, and bedraggled, there was nothing gleeful about us, while Bob Blades expressed his disgust over our occupation. If I ever get home again, said he, and the tones of his voice were an able second to his remarks. You all can go up the trail that want to, but here's one chicken that won't. There isn't a cowman in Texas who has money enough to hire me again.  You oughtn't let a little rain ruffle your feathers that way. Cheer up, sonny. You may be rich some day yet, and walk on Brussels and velvet. End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 of The Log of a Cowboy by Andy Adams This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Forty Islands, Ford After securing account on the herd that morning and finding nothing short, we trailed out up the North Platte River. It was an easy country in which to handle a herd. The trail in places would run back from the river as far as ten miles, and again follow close in near the river bottoms. There was an abundance of small creeks putting into this fork of the Platte from the south, which afforded water for the herd and good campgrounds at night. Only twice after leaving Ogallala had we been compelled to go to the river for water for the herd. And with the exception of thunderstorms and occasional summer rains, the weather had been all one could wish. For the past week as we trailed up the North Platte, some of us had visited the river daily to note its stage of water, for we were due to cross at Forty Islands, about twelve miles south of old Fort Laramie. The North Platte was very similar to the South Canadian, a wide sandy stream without banks, and our experience with the latter was fresh in our memories. The stage of water had not been favourable, for this river also had its source in the mountains. And as now Midsummer was upon us, the season of heavy rainfall in the mountains augmented by the melting snows, the prospect of finding affordable stage of water at Forty Islands was not very encouraging. We reached this well-known crossing late in the afternoon, the third day after leaving the Wyoming line, and found one of the prairie cattle company's herds, Waterbound. This herd had been wintered on one of that company's ranges on the Arkansas River in southern Colorado, and their destination was in the Badlands near the mouth of the Yellowstone, where the same company had a northern range. Flood knew the foreman, Wade Scholar, who reported having been waterbound over a week already with no prospect of crossing without swimming. Scholar knew the country thoroughly, and had decided to lie over until the river was affordable at Forty Islands, as it was much the easiest crossing on the North Platte, though there was a wagon ferry at Fort Laramie. He returned with flood to our camp, and the two talked over the prospect of swimming it on the morrow. Let's send the wagons up to the ferry in the morning, said flood, and swim the herds. If you wait until this river falls, you are liable to have an experience like we had on the South Canadian, lost three days and bogged over a hundred cattle. When one of these sandy rivers has had a big freshet, look out for quick sands. But you know that as well as I do. Why, we've squam over a half a dozen rivers already, and I'd much rather swim this one than attempt to forward it just after it has fallen. We can double our outfits and be safely across before noon. I've got nearly a thousand miles yet to make, and have just got to get over. Think it over tonight, and have your wagon ready to start with ours. Scholar rode away without giving our foreman any definite answer as to what he would do. Though earlier in the evening he had offered to throw his herd well out of the way at the ford and lend us any assistance at his command. But when it came to the question of crossing his own herd, he seemed to dread the idea of swimming the river, and could not be induced to say what he would do, but said that we were welcome to the lead. The next morning Flood and I accompanied our wagon up to his camp, where it was plainly evident that he did not intend to send his wagon with ours, and McCann started on alone, though our foreman renewed his efforts to convince Scholar of the feasibility of swimming the herds. Their cattle were thrown well away from the ford, and Scholar assured us that his outfit would be on hand whenever we were ready to cross, and even invited all hands of us to come to his wagon for dinner. When returning to our herd, Flood told me that Scholar was considered one of the best foremen on the trail, and why he should refuse to swim his cattle was unexplainable. He must have time to burn, but that doesn't seem reasonable. For the earlier through cattle were turned loose on their winter range the better. We were in no hurry to cross as our wagon would be gone all day, and it was nearly high noon when we trailed up to the ford. With the addition to our force of Scholar, and nine or ten of his men, we had an abundance of help, and put the cattle into the water opposite two islands, our saddle horses in the lead as usual. There was no swimming water between the south shore and the first island, though it wet our saddle skirts for some considerable distance, this channel being nearly two hundred yards wide. Most of the outfit took the water, while Scholar's men fed our herd in from the south bank, a number of their men coming over as far as the first island. The second island laid down the stream some little distance, and as we pushed the cattle off the first one we were in swimming water in no time, but the saddle horses were already landing on the second island, and our lead cattle struck out and, breasting the water, swam as proudly as swans. The middle channel was nearly a hundred yards wide, the greater portion of which was swimming, though the last channel was much wider, but our saddle horses had already taken it, and within fifty yards of the farther shore struck solid footing. With our own outfit we crowded the leaders to keep the chain of cattle unbroken, and before Honeyman could hustle his horses out of the river, our lead cattle had caught a foothold, and were heading upstream and edging out for the farther shore. I had one of the best at swimming horses in our outfit, and Flood put me in the lead on the point. As my horse came out on the farther bank, I am certain I have never seen a herd of cattle before or since, which presented a prettier sight when swimming than ours did that day. There were fully four hundred yards of water on the angle by which we crossed, nearly half of which was swimming, but with the two islands which gave them a breathing spell, our circle dots were taking the water as steadily as a herd leaving their bed-ground. Scholar and his men were feeding them in, while half a dozen of our men on each island were keeping them moving. Honeyman and I pointed them out of the river, and as they grazed away from the shore, they spread out fan-like, many of them kicking up their heels after they left the water in healthy enjoyment of their bath. Long before they were half over, the usual shouting had ceased, and we simply sat in our saddles and waited for the long train of cattle to come up and cross. Within less than a half an hour from the time our saddle-horses entered the North Platte, the tail end of our herd had landed safely on the farther bank. As Honeyman and I were the only ones of our outfit on the north side of the river during the passage, Flood called to us from across the last channel to graze the herd until relieved, when the remainder of the outfit returned to the south side to recover their discarded effects and to get dinner with Scholar's wagon. I had imitated Honeyman and tied my boots to my cantile strings so that my effects were on the right side of the river, and as far as dinner was concerned, well, I'd much rather miss it than swim the Platte twice in its then stage of water. There's a difference in daring in one's duty and daring out of pure venturesomeness, and if we missed our dinners it would not be the first time. So we were quite willing to make the sacrifice. If the Quirk family never achieve fame for daring by Field and Flood until this one of the old man boys brings the family name into prominence, it will be hopelessly lost to posterity. We allowed the cattle to graze, of their own free will, and merely turned in the sides and rear, but on reaching the second bottom of the river, where they caught a good breeze, they lay down for their noonday siesta, which relieved us of all work but keeping watch over them. The saddle horses were grazing about in plain view on the first bottom, so Honeyman and I dismounted on a little elevation overlooking our charges. We were expecting the outfit to return promptly after dinner was over, for it was early enough in the day to have trailed eight or ten miles farther. It would have been no trouble to send someone up the river to meet our wagon and pilot McCann to the herd, for the trail left on a line due north from the river. We had been lounging about for an hour while the cattle were resting when our attention was attracted by our saddle horses in the bottom. They were looking at the ford, to which we suppose their attention had been attracted by the swimming of the outfit, but instead only two of the boys showed up, and, unsighting us nearly a mile away, they rode forward very leisurely. Before their arrival we recognized them by their horses as ash, baro stone, and rod wheat, and on their riding up the latter said as he dismounted, well they're going across the other herd, and they want you to come back and point the cattle with that famous swimming horse of yours. You'll learn after a while not to blow so much about your mount, and your cutting horses, and your night horses, and your swimming horses.  And I'm not the only one that is a distaste for wet proposition, for I wouldn't have to guess twice as to what's to matter with Scholar. But Flood has pounded him on the back ever since he met him yesterday evening to swim his cattle, until it's either swim or say he's afraid to. It's shoot Luke or give up the gun with him. Scholar's a nice fellow, but I'll bet my interest in goose heaven that I know what's to matter with him. And I'm not blaming him either, but I can't understand why our boss should take such an interest in having him swim. It's none of his business if he swims now, or four it's a month hence, or waits until the river freezes over in the winter, and crosses on the ice. But let the big augers wrangle it out. You notice, Nash, that not one of Scholar's outfit ever said a word one way or the other. But Flood poured it into him, until he consented to swim. So fork that swimming-horse of yours, and wet your big toe again in the North Platte. As the orders had come from the foreman, there was nothing to do but obey. Honeyman rode as far as the river with me, where after shedding my boots and surplus clothing and secreting them, I rode up above the island and plunged in. I was riding the gray which I had tried in the real grand, the day we received our herd, and now I understood handling him better. I preferred him the nigger-boy, my night-horse. We took the first and second islands with but a blowing spell between, and when I reached the farther shore I turned in my saddle and saw Honeyman wave his hat to me in congratulation. On reaching their wagon I found the herd was swinging around about a mile out from the river, in order to get a straight chute for the entrance at the ford. I hurriedly swallowed my dinner, and as we rode out to meet the herd, asked Flood if Scholar were not going to send his wagon up to the ferry to cross, for there was as yet no indication of it. Flood replied that Scholar expected to go with the wagon, as he needed some supplies which he thought he could get from the subtler at Fort Laramie. Flood ordered me to take the lower point again, and I rode across the trail and took my place when the herd came within a quarter-mile of the river, while the remainder of the outfit took positions near the lead on the lower side. It was a slightly larger herd than ours, all steers, three-year-olds that reflected in their glossy coats the benefits of a northern winter. As we came up to the water's edge it required two of their men to force their remuda into the water, though it was much smaller than ours, six horses to the man, but better ones than ours for being northern wintered. The cattle were well trailbroken, and followed the leadership of the saddle-horses nicely to the first island, but they would have balked at this second channel had it not been for the amount of help at hand. We lined them out, however, and they breasted the current and landed on the second island. The saddle-horses gave some little trouble on leaving for the farther shore, and before they got off several hundred head of cattle had landed on the island. But they handled obediently and were soon trailing out upon terra firma, the herd following across without a broken link in the chain. There was nothing now to do but keep the train moving into the water on the south bank, see that they did not congest on the islands and that they left the river on reaching the farther shore. When the saddle-horses reached the farther bank they were thrown up the river and turned loose, so that the two men would be available to hold the herd after it left the water. I had crossed with the first lead cattle to the farther shore, and was turning them up the river as fast as they struck solid footing on that side. But several times I was compelled to swim back to the nearest island and return with large bunches, which had hesitated to take the last channel. The two outfits were working cross-miscuously together, and I never knew who was the directing spirit in the work. But when the last two or three hundred of the tail-enders were leaving the first island for the second and the men working in the rear started to swim the channel, amid the general hilarity I recognized a shout that was born of fear and terror. A hushed silence fell over the riotous riders in the river, and I saw those on the sand-bar nearest my side rush down the narrow island and plunge back into the middle channel. Then it dawned on my mind in a flash that someone had lost his seat, and that terrified cry was for help. I plunged my gray into the river and swam to the first bar, and from thence to the scene of the trouble. Horses and men were drifting with a current down the channel, and as I appealed to the men I could get no answer, but their blanched faces, though it was plain in every countenance that one of our number was under water, if not drowned. There were not less than twenty horsemen drifting in the middle channel in hope that whoever it was would come to the surface, and a hand could be stretched out in sucker. About two hundred yards down the river was an island near the middle of the stream. The current carried us near it, and on landing I learned that the unfortunate man was none other than Wade Scholar, the foreman of the herd. We scattered up and down this middle island and watched every ripple and floating bit afloat some in hope that he would come to the surface, but nothing but his hat was seen. In the disorder into which the outfit were thrown by this accident, Flood first regained his thinking faculties and ordered a few of us to cross to either bank and ride down the river and take up positions on the other islands, from which that part of the river took its name. A hundred conjectures were offered as to how it occurred, but no one saw either horse or rider after sinking. A free horse would be hard to drown, and on the non-appearance of Scholar's mount it was concluded that he must have become entangled in the rains, or that Scholar had clutched them in his death-grip, and the horse and man thus met death together. It was believed by his own outfit that Scholar had no intention until the last moment to risk swimming the river, but when he saw all others plunge into the channel, his better judgment was overcome, and rather than remain behind and cause comment, he had followed and lost his life. We patrolled the river until darkness without result, the two herds in the meantime having been so neglected that they had mixed. Our wagon returned along the North Bank early in the evening, and Flood ordered priests to go in and make up a guard from the two outfits and hold herd for the night. Someone of Scholar's outfit went back and moved their wagon up to the crossing within hailing distance of ours. It was a night of muffled conversation, and every voice of the night or cry of waterfowl in the river sent creepy sensations over us. The long night passed, however, and the sun rose in Sabbath benediction for it was Sunday, and found groups of men huddled around two wagons in silent contemplation of what the day before had brought. A more broken and disconsolent set of men than Scholar's would be hard to imagine. Flood inquired of their outfit if there was any subformin, or Segundo, as they were generally called. It seemed there was not. But their outfit was unanimous that the leadership should fall to a boyhood acquaintance of Scholar's by the name of Campbell, who was generally addressed as Black Jim. Flood at once advised Campbell to send their wagon up to Laramie and cross it, promising that we would lie over that day and make an effort to recover the body of the drowned foreman. Campbell accordingly started his wagon up to the ferry, and all that remained of the outfits, with the exception of a few men on herd, started out in search of the drowned man. Within a mile and a half below the ford there were located over thirty of the forty islands, and at the lower end of this chain of sandbars we began and searched both shores, while three or four men swam to each island and made a vigorous search. The water in the river was not very clear, which called for close inspection. But with a force of twenty-five men in the hunt we covered island and shore rapidly in our search. It was about eight in the morning, and we had already searched half of the islands. When Joe Stallings and two of Scholar's men swam to an island in the river, which had a growth of small cotton woods covering it, while on the upper end was a heavy logment of driftwood. John Officer, the rebel and I, had taken the next island above, and as we were riding the shallows surrounding it we heard a shot in our rear that told us the body had been found. As we turned in the direction of the signal, Stallings was standing on a large driftwood log and signalling. We started back to him partly wading and partly swimming, while from both sides of the river men were swimming their horses for the brushy island. Our squad, on nearing the lower bar, was compelled to swim around the driftwood, and some twelve or fifteen men from either shore reached the scene before us. The body was lying face upward in about eighteen inches of eddy water. Flood and Campbell waited out, and taking a lariat, fastened it around his chest under the arms. Then Flood, noticing I was riding my black, asked me to tow the body ashore. Forcing a passage through the driftwood I took the loose end of the lariat and started for the north bank, the double outfit following. On reaching the shore the body was carried out of the water by willing hands, and one of our outfit was sent to the wagon for a tarplin to be used as a stretcher. Meanwhile Campbell took possession of the drowned foreman's watch, six-shooter, purse, and papers. The watch was as good as ruined, but the leather holster had shrunk and securely held the gun from being lost in the river. On the arrival of the tarplin the body was laid upon it, and four mounted men, taking the four corners of the sheet, wrapped them on the pommels of their saddles and started for our wagon. When the corpse had been lowered to the ground at our camp, a look of inquiry passed from face to face which seemed to ask, what next? But the inquiry was answered a moment later by black Jim Campbell, the friend of the dead man. Memory may have dimmed the lesser details of that Sunday morning on the North Platte, for over two decades have since gone, but his words and manliness have lived, not only in my mind, but in the memory of every other survivor of those present. This accident, said he in perfect composure, has he gazed into the calm still face of his dead friend, will impose upon me a very sad duty. I expect to meet his mother some day. She will want to know everything. I must tell her the truth. And I'd hate to tell her we buried him like a dog, for she's a Christian woman, and what makes it all the harder I know that this is the third boy she has lost by drowning. Some of you may not have understood him, but among those papers which you saw me take from his pockets was a letter from his mother in which she warned him to guard against just what has happened. Situated as we are, I'm going to ask you all to help me give him the best burial we can. No doubt it will be crude, but it will be some solace to her to know we did the best we could. Every one of us was eager to lend his assistance. Within five minutes priest was galloping up the north bank of the river to intercept the wagon at the ferry, a well-filled purse in his pocket, with which to secure a coffin at Fort Laramie. Flood and Campbell selected a burial place, and with our wagon spade a grave was being dug on a nearby grassy mound where there were two other graves. There was not a man among us who was hypocrite enough to attempt to conduct a Christian burial service. But when the subject came up, McCann said as he came down the river the evening before he noticed an immigrant train of about thirty wagons going into camp at a grove about five miles up the river. In a conversation which he had had with one of the party, he learned that they expected to rest over Sunday. Their respect for the Sabbath day caused Campbell to suggest that there might be someone in the immigrant camp who could conduct a Christian burial, and he at once mounted his horse and rode away to learn. In preparing the body for its last resting place we were badly handicapped, but by tearing a new wagon sheet in the strips about a foot in width, and wrapping the body we gave it a humble beer in the shade of our wagon, pending the arrival of the coffin. The features were so ashen by having been submerged in the river for over eighteen hours that we wrapped the face also. As we preferred to remember him as we had seen him the day before, strong, healthy and buoyant. During the interim, awaiting the return of Campbell from the immigrant camp and of the wagon, we sat around in groups and discussed the incident. There was a sense of guilt expressed by a number of our outfit over their hasty decision regarding the courage of the dead man. When we understood that two of his brothers had met a similar fate in Red River within the past five years, every guilty thought or hasty word spoken came back to us with tenfold weight. Priest and Campbell returned together. The former reported having secured a coffin which would arrive within an hour, while the latter had met in the immigrant camp a super-numerated minister who gladly volunteered his services. He had given the old minister such data as he had, and two of the minister's granddaughters had expressed a willingness to assist by singing at the burial service. Campbell had set the hour for four, and several conveyances would be down from the immigrant camp. The wagon arriving shortly afterward, we had barely time to lay the corpse in the coffin before the immigrants drove up. The minister was a tall, homely man with a flowing beard which the frosts of many a winter had whitened, and as he mingled amongst us in the final preparations he had a kind word for every one. There were ten in his party, and when the coffin had been carried out to the grave, the two granddaughters of the old man opened the simple service by singing very impressively the first three verses of the Portuguese hymn. I had heard the old hymn sung often before, but the impression of the last verse rang in my ears for days afterwards. When through the deep waters I call thee to go, the rivers of sorrow shall not overflow. For I will be with thee thy troubles to bless, and sanctify to thee thy deepest distress. As the notes of the hymn died away, there were a few moments of profound stillness, and not a move was made by any one. The touching words of the old hymn expressed quite vividly the disaster of the previous day, and awakened in us many memories of home. For a time we were silent, while eyes unused to weeping filled with tears. I do not know how long we remain so. It may have been only for a moment, it probably was, but I do know the silence was not broken till the aged minister, who stood at the head of the coffin, began his discourse. We stood with uncovered heads during the service, and when the old minister addressed us. He spoke as though he might have been holding family worship, and we had been his children. He invoked heaven to comfort and sustain the mother when the news of her son's death reached her, as she would need more than human aid in that hour. He prayed that her faith might not falter, that she might again meet and be with her loved ones forever in the great beyond. He then took up the subject of life, spoke of its brevity, its many hopes that are never realized, and the disappointments from which no prudence or foresight can shield us. He dwelt at some length on the strange mingling of sunshine and shadow that seemed to belong to every life, of the mystery everywhere, and nowhere more impressively than in ourselves. With his long bony finger he pointed to the cold mute form that lay in the coffin before us and said, but this, my friends, is the mystery of all mysteries. The fact that life terminated in death, he said, only emphasized its reality, that the death of our companion was not an accident, though it was sudden and unexpected, that the difficulties of life are such that it would be worse than folly on us to try and meet them in our own strength. Death, he said, might change, but it did not destroy, that the soul still lived and would live forever. That death was simply the gateway out of time into eternity. And if we were to realize the high aim of our being, we could do so by casting our burdens on him who was able and willing to carry them for us. He spoke feelingly of the great teacher, the lowly Nazarene who also suffered and died, and he concluded with an eloquent description of the blessed life, the immortality of the soul and the resurrection of the body. After the discourse was ended and a brief earnest prayer was covered, the two young girls sang the hymn, shall we meet beyond the river? The service is being at an end, the coffin was lowered into the grave. Campbell thanked the old minister and his two granddaughters on their taking leave for their presence and assistance, and a number of us boys also shook hands with the old man at parting. End of Chapter 19 Chapter 20 of The Log of a Cowboy by Andy Adams This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. A moonlight drive. The two herds were held together a second night. But after they had grazed a few hours the next morning, the cattle were thrown together, and the work of cutting out ours commenced. With a double outfit of men available, about 20 men were turned into the herd to do the cutting, the remainder holding the main herd and looking after the cut. The morning was cool, everyone worked with a vim, and in about two hours the herds were again separated and ready for the final trimming. Campbell did not expect to move out until he could communicate with the head office of the company and would go up to Fort Laramie for that purpose during the day, hoping to be able to get a message over the military wire. When his outfit had finished retrimming our herd, and we had looked over his cattle for the last time, the two outfits bathed each other farewell, and our herd started on its journey. The unfortunate accident at the Ford had depressed our feelings to such an extent that there was an entire absence of hilarity, by the way. This morning the farewell songs generally used in partying with a river which had defied us were omitted. The herd trailed out like an immense serpent and was guided and controlled by our men as if by mutes. Long before the noon hour we passed out of sight of Forty Islands, and in the next few days, with the change of scene, the gloom gradually lifted. We were bearing almost due north and passing through a delightful country. To our left ran a range of mountains, while on the other hand, sloped off the apparently limitless plain. The scarcity of water was beginning to be felt. For the streams, which had not a source in the mountains on our left, had dried up weeks before our arrival. There was a gradual change of air noticeable too. For we were rapidly gaining altitude, and the heat of the summer being now confined to a few hours at noonday, while the nights were almost too cool for our comfort. When about three days out from the North Platte, the mountains disappeared on our left, while on the other hand, appeared a rugged looking country, which we knew must be the approaches of the black hills. Another day's drive brought us into the main stage road connecting the railroad on the south with the mining camps which nestled somewhere in those rocky hills to our right. The stage road followed the trail for some ten or fifteen miles before we parted company with it on a dry fork of the big Cheyenne River. There was a roadhouse and a stage stand where these two thoroughfares separated, the one to the mining camp of Deadwood, while ours, of the Montana Cattle Trail, bore off for the Powder River to the northwest. At this stage stand we learned that some twenty herds had already passed by to the northern ranges, and that after passing the next fork of the big Cheyenne, we should find no water until we struck the Powder River, a stretch of eighty miles. The keeper of the roadhouse, a genial host, informed us that this droughty stretch in our front was something unusual, this being one of the driest summers that he had experienced since the discovery of gold in the black hills. Here was a new situation to be met, an eighty mile dry drive, and with our experience of a few months before at Indian Lakes, fresh in our memories, we set our house in order for the undertaking before us. It was yet fifteen miles to the next and last water from the stage stand. There were several dry forks of the Cheyenne beyond, but as they had their source in the table-lands of Wyoming, we could not hope for water in their dry bottoms. The situation was serious, with only this encouragement. Other herds had crossed this arid belt since the streams had dried up, and our circle dots could walk with any herd that ever left Texas. The wisdom of mounting us well for just such an emergency reflected the good cow sense of our employer. And we felt easy in regard to our amounts, though there was not a horse or a man too many. In summing up the situation, Flood said, we've got this advantage over the Indian Lake Drive. There is a good moon, and the days are cool. We'll make twenty-five miles a day covering this stretch, as this herd has never been put to a test yet to see how far they could walk in a day. They'll have to do their sleeping at noon. At least cut it into two shifts. And if we get any sleep, we'll have to do the same. Let her come as she will. Every day's drive is a day nearer the Blackfoot Agency. We made a dry camp that night on the divide between the Roadhouse and the Last Water, and the next four noon reached the South Fork of the Big Cheyenne. The water was not even running in it, but there were several long pools, and we held the cattle around them for over an hour until every hoof had been thoroughly watered. McCann had filled every keg and canteen in advance of the arrival of the herd, and Flood had exercised sufficient caution, in view of what lay before us, to buy an extra keg and a bullseye lantern at the Roadhouse. After watering we trailed out some four or five miles and camped for noon. But the herd were allowed to graze forward until they lay down for their noonday rest. As the herd passed opposite the wagon, we cut out a fat two-year-old stray heifer and killed her for beef, for the inner man must be fortified for the journey before us. After a two-hours siesta, we threw the herd on the trail and started on our way. The wagon and saddle horses were held in our immediate rear, for there was no telling when or where we would make our next halt of any consequence. We trailed and grazed the herd alternately until near evening, when the wagon was sent on ahead about three miles to get supper, while half the outfit went along to change mounts and catch up horses for those remaining behind with the herd. A half-hour before the usual bedding time, the relieved men returned and took the grazing herd, and the others rode into the wagon for supper and a change of mounts. While we shifted our saddles, we smelled the savory odor of fresh beef frying. "'Listen to that good old beef talking, will you?' said Joe Stallings as he was bridling his horse. McCann, I'll take my carny fresco a trifle rare to-night, garnished with a sprig of parsley and a wee bit of lemon.' Before we had finished supper, Honeyman had re-hooked the mules to the wagon, while the remuda was at hand to follow. Before we left the wagon, a full moon was rising on the eastern horizon, and as we were starting out, Flood gave us these general directions. "'I'm going to take the lead with the cook's lantern. And one of you rearmen, take the new bullseye. We'll throw the herd on the trail, and between the lead and the rear light, you swingmen want to ride well outside. And you pointmen want to hold the lead cattle, so the rear will never be more than a half a mile behind. I'll admit that this is somewhat of an experiment with me. But I don't see any good reason why she won't work. After the moon gets another hour high, we can see a quarter of a mile, and the cattle are so well trail-broke that they'll never try to scatter. If it works all right, we'll never bed them short of midnight, and that will put us ten miles farther. Let's ride, lads." By the time the herd was eased back on the trail, our evening campfire had been passed, while the cattle let out as if walking on a wager. After the first mile on the trail, the men on the point were compelled to ride in the lead if we were to hold them within the desired half-mile. The men on the other side, or the swing, were gradually widening until the herd must have reached fully a mile in length. Yet we swing riders were never out of sight of each other. It would have been impossible for any cattle to leave the herd unnoticed. In that moonlight the trail was as plain as day, and after an hour Flood turned his lantern over to one of the point men, and rode back around the herd to the rear. From my position, that first night near the middle of the swing, the lanterns both rear and forward, being always in sight, I was as much at sea as any one has to the length of the herd, knowing the deceitfulness of distance of campfires and other lights by night. The foreman appealed to me as he rode down the column to know the length of the herd, but I could give him no more than a simple guess. I could assure him, however, that the cattle had made no effort to drop out and leave the trail. But a short time after he passed me, I noticed a horseman galloping up the column on the opposite side of the herd, and knew it must be the foreman. Within a short time, someone in the lead wig-wagged his lantern. It was answered by the light in the rear. And the next minute, the old rear song, Lippelago, go along, little doggy, you'll make a beefsteer, buy and buy. Reached us riders in the swing, and we knew the rear guard of cattle was being pushed forward. The distance between the swingmen gradually narrowed in our lead, from which we could tell the leaders were being held in, until several times cattle graze out from the herd, due to the checking in front. At this juncture, flood galloped around the herd a second time, and as he passed us riding along our side, I appealed to him to let them go in front, as it now required constant riding to keep the cattle from leaving the trail to graze. When he passed up the other side, I could distinctly hear the men on that flank making a similar appeal, and shortly afterwards the herd loosened out, and we struck our old gate for several hours. Trailing by moonlight was a novelty to all of us, and in the stillness of the splendid July nights, we could hear the point men chattering across the lead in front, while well in the rear the rattling of our heavily loaded wagon and the whistling of the horse wrangler to his charges reached our ears. The swingmen were scattered so far apart, there was no chance for conversation amongst us. But every once in a while a song would be started, and as it surged up and down the line every voice, good, bad, and indifferent, joined in. Singing is supposed to have a soothing effect on cattle, though I will vouch for the fact that none of our circle dots stopped that night to listen to our vocal efforts. The herd was traveling so nicely that our foremen hardly noticed the passing hours. But along about midnight the singing ceased, and we were nodding in our saddles and wondering if they in the lead were never going to throw off the trail. When a great wig-wagging occurred in front, and presently we overtook the rebel, holding the lantern and turning the herd out of the trail. It was then after midnight, and within another half hour we had the cattle bed it down within a few hundred yards of the trail. One hour guards was the order of the night, and as soon as our wagon and saddle horses came up we stretched ropes and caught out our night horses. These were either tied to the wagon wheels or picketed near at hand. And then we sought our blankets for a few hours' sleep. It was half-past three in the morning when our guard was called, and before the hour passed the first signs of day were visible in the east. But even before our watch had ended, flood and the last guard came to our relief, and we pushed the sleeping cattle off the bed-ground and started them grazing forward. Cattle will not graze freely in a heavy dew or too early in the morning, and before the sun was high enough to dry the grass we had put several miles behind us. When the sun was about an hour high the remainder of the outfit overtook us, and shortly afterward the wagon and saddle horses passed on up the trail, from which it was evident that breakfast would be served in the dining-car ahead, as the traveled priests aptly put it. After the sun was well up the cattle grazed freely for several hours, but when we sighted the remuda and our commissary some two miles in our lead, flood ordered the herd lined up for a count. The rebel was always a reliable counter, and he and the foreman now rode forward and selected the crossing of a dry wash for the counting. On receiving their signal to come on we allowed the herd to graze slowly forward, but gradually pointing them into an immense v, and as the point of the herd crossed the dry arroyo we compelled them to pass in a narrow file between the two counters, when they again spread out fan-like and continued their feeding. The count confirmed the success of our driving by night, and on its completion all but two men rode to the wagon for breakfast. By the time the morning meal was disposed of the herd had come up parallel with the wagon, but a mile to the westward, and as fast as fresh mouths could be saddled we rode away in small squants to relieve the herders and to turn the cattle into the trail. It was but a little after eight o'clock in the morning, when the herd was again trailing out on the Powder River Trail, and we had already put thirty miles of the dry drive behind us, while so far neither horse nor cattle had been put to any extra exertion. The wagon followed as usual, and for over three hours we held the trail without a break. When sighting a divide in our front the foreman went back and sent the wagon around the herd with instructions to make the noon camp well up on the divide. We threw the herd off the trail, within a mile of this stopping place, and allowed them to graze, while two-thirds of our outfit galloped away to the wagon. We allowed the cattle to lie down and rest to their complete satisfaction until the middle of the afternoon. Meanwhile all hands, with the exception of two men on herd, also lay down and slept in the shade of the wagon. When the cattle had had several hours sleep the want of water made them restless, and they began to rise and graze away. Then all hands were aroused, and we threw them upon the trail. The heat of the day was already over, and until the twilight of the evening we trailed a three-mile clip, and again threw the herd off to graze. By our traveling and grazing gates we could form an approximate idea as to the distance we had covered, and the consensus of opinion, of all, was that we had already killed over half the distance. The herd was beginning to show the want of water by evening, but amongst our saddle horses the lack of water was more noticeable, as a horse subsisting on grass alone weakens easily, and riding them made them all the more gaunt. When we caught up our mounts that evening we had used eight horses to the man since we had left the South Fork, and another one would be required at midnight or whenever we halted. We made our drive the second night with more confidence than the one before, but there were times when the train of cattle must have been nearly two miles in length. Yet there was never a halt as long as the man with the lead light could see the one in the rear. We bet at the herd about midnight, and at first break of day the fourth guard with the foreman joined our watch, and we started the cattle again. There was a light dew the second night, and the cattle, hungered by their night walk, went to grazing at once on the damp grass, which would allay their thirst slightly. We allowed them to scatter over several thousand acres, for we were anxious to graze them well before the sun absorbed the moisture, but at the same time every step they took was one less to the coveted powder river. When we had grazed the herd forward several miles, and the sun was nearly an hour high, the wagon failed to come up, which caused our foreman some slight uneasiness. Nearly another hour passed, and still the wagon did not come up, nor did the outfit put in an appearance. Soon afterwards, however, Moss Strayhorn overtook us and reported that over forty of our saddle horses were missing, while the work mules had been overtaken nearly five miles back on the trail. On account of my ability as a trailer, Flood at once dispatched me to assist Honeyman in recovering the missing horses, instructing someone else to take the remuda and the wagon and horses to follow up the herd. By the time I arrived most of the boys at camp had secured a change of horses, and I called up my grulla that I was saving for the last hard ride, for the horse-hunt which confronted us.  But before we let the wagon get away we rustled a couple cans of tomatoes and buried them in a cache near the camp ground, where we would have no trouble in finding them on our return. As the wagon pulled out we mounted our horses and rode back down the trail. Billy Honeyman understood horses, and it once volunteered the belief that we would have a long ride overtaking the missing saddle-stock. The absent horses, he said, were principally the ones which had been under saddle the day before, and, as we both knew, a tired, thirsty horse will go miles for water. He recalled also that while we were asleep at noon the day before twenty miles back on the trail, the horses had found quite a patch of wild sorrel plant, and were foolish over leaving it. Both of us being satisfied that this would hold them for several hours at least, we struck a free gate for it. After we passed the point where the mules had been overtaken the trail of the horses was distinct enough for us to follow in an easy canter. We saw frequent signs that they left the trail, no doubt to graze, but only for short distances, when they would enter it again and keep it for miles. Shortly before noon we gained the divide above our noon camp of the day before, and there about two miles distance we saw our missing horses, feeding over an alkali flat on which grew wild sorrel and other species of sour plants. We rounded them up and finding none missing. We first secured a change of mounts. The only two horses of my mount in this portion of the Remuda had both been under saddle the afternoon and night before, and were as gaunt as rails. Honeyman had one unused horse of his mount in the hand. So when taking down our ropes we halted the horses and began riding slowly around them, forcing them into a compact body. I had my eye on a brown horse of floods that had not had a saddle on in a week, and told Billy to fasten to him if he got a chance. This was in violation of all custom, but if the foreman kicked I had a good excuse to offer. Honeyman was left-handed and threw a rope splendidly, and as we circled around the horses on opposite sides, on signal from him we whirled our lariots and made casts simultaneously. The wrangler fastened to the brown I wanted, and my loop settled around the neck of his unridden horse. As the band broke away from our swinging ropes, a number of them ran afoul of my rope. But I gave the rowl to my grulla, and we shook them off. When I returned the Honeyman, we had exchanged horses and were shifting our saddles. I complimented him on the long throw he had made in catching the brown, and incidentally mentioned that I had read of the caros in California who used a sixty-five-foot lariat. Hell, said Billy, in ridicule of the idea, there wasn't a man ever born who could throw a sixty-five-foot rope its full length. Without he threw it down a well. The sun was straight overhead when we started back to overtake the herd. We struck into a little better than a five-mile gate on the return trip. And about two o'clock sighted a band of saddle-horses and a wagon camped perhaps a mile forward and to the side of the trail. Uncoming near enough we saw at a glance it was a cow outfit. And after driving our loose horses, a good push beyond their camp, we turned and rode back to their wagon. Who give them a chance to ask us to eat, said Billy to me, and if they don't, why, they'll miss a hell of a good chance to entertain hungry men. But the foreman, with a stranger wagon, proved to be a B county Texan, and our doubts did him an injustice. For although dinner was over, he invited us to dismount and ordered his cook to set out something to eat. They had met our wagon, and McCann had insisted on their taking a quarter of our beef. So we fared well. The outfit was from a ranch near Miles City, Montana, and were going down to receive a herd of cattle at Cheyenne, Wyoming. The cattle had been bought at Ogallala for delivery at the former point, and this wagon was going down with their ranch outfit to take the herd on its arrival. They had brought along about seventy-five saddle-horses from the ranch. Though in buying the herd, they had taken its remuda of over a hundred saddle-horses. The foreman informed us that they had met our cattle about the middle of the forenoon, nearly twenty-five miles out from Powder River. After we had satisfied the inner man, we lost no time getting off, as we could see a long ride ahead of us. But we had occasion, as we rode away, to go through their remuda to cut out a few of our horses which had mixed, and I found I knew over a dozen of their horses by the ranch brands, while Honeyman also recognized quite a few. Though we felt a pride in our mounds, we had to admit that theirs were better. For the effect of climate had transformed horses that we had once ridden on ranches in southern Texas.  We halted at our night camp to change horses and to unearth our cached tomatoes, and again set out. By then it was so late in the day that the sun had lost its force, and on this last leg in overtaking the herd we increased our gate steadily until the sun was scarcely an hour high, and yet we never sighted a dust cloud in our front.  Twilight had faded in the dusk before we reached the divide which we had had in sight for several hours, and which we had hoped to gain in time to sight the timber on Powder River before dark. But as we put mile after mile behind us the divide seemed to move away like a mirage, and the evening star had been shining for an hour before we finally reached it, and sighted, instead of Powder's timber, the campfire of our outfit, about five miles ahead. We fired several shots on seeing the light in hope that they might hear us in camp and wait, otherwise we knew they would start the herd with the rising of the moon. When we finally reached camp about nine o'clock at night everything was in readiness to start, the moon having risen sufficiently. Our shooting however had been heard, and horses for a change were tied to the wagon wheels, while the remainder of the remuda was under herd in charge of rod wheat. The runaways were thrown into the horse herd while we bolted our suppers. Meantime the can informed us that flood had ridden that afternoon to the Powder River in order to get the lay of the land. He had found it to be ten or twelve miles distant from the present camp, and the water in the river barely knee deep to a saddle horse. Beyond it was a fine valley. Before we started, flood rode in from the herd and said the honeymoon, I'm going to send the horses and wagon ahead to-night, and you and McCann want to camp on this side of the river, under the hill, and just a few hundred yards below the ford. Throw your saddle horses across the river and build a fire before you go to sleep, so we will have a beacon light to pilot us in, in case the cattle break into a run on senting the water. The herd will get in a little after midnight, and after crossing we'll turn our loose just for luck. It did me good to hear the foreman say that the herd was to be turned loose, for I had been in the saddle since three that morning and had ridden over eighty miles, and now had ten more in sight, while honeymoon would complete the day with over a hundred to his credit. We let the remuda take the lead in pulling out, so that the wagon mules could be spurred to their utmost in keeping up with the loose horses. Once they were clear of the herd we let the cattle into the trail. They had refused to bed down, for they were uneasy with thirst, but the cool weather had saved them any serious suffering. We all felt Gala has the herd strung out on the trail.  There was lots of singing that night. There's one more river to cross, and roll, powder, roll, were waved out on the night air, to the coyotes that howled on our flanks, or to the prairie dogs as they peeped from their burrows at this weird caravan of the night, and the lights which flickered in our front and rear must have been real jack-o'-lanterns or will-of-the-wisps to these occupants of the plain. Before we had covered half the distance, the herd was strung out over two miles, and as flood rode back to the rear every half hour or so, he showed no inclination to check the lead and give the sore foot at rear guard a chance to close up the column. But about an hour before midnight we saw a light low down in our front, which gradually increased until the treetops were distinctly visible, and we knew that our wagon had reached the river. On sighting the speaking the long yell went up and down the column, and the herd walked as only long-legged, thirsty Texas cattle can walk when they sent water. Flood called all the swingmen to the rear, and we threw out a half-circle skirmish line covering a mile in width, so far back that only an occasional glimmer of the lead light could be seen. The trail struck the powder on an angle, and when within a mile of the river the swing cattle left the deep trodden paths and started for the nearest water. The left flank of our skirmish line encountered the cattle as they reached the river and prevented them from drifting up the stream. The pointmen abandoned the leaders when within a few hundred yards of the river. Then the rear guard of cripples and sore-footed cattle came up, and the two flanks of horsemen pushed them all across the river until they met when we turned and galloped in the camp, making the night hideous with our yelling. The longest dry drive of the trip had been successfully made, and we all felt jubilant. We stripped bridles and saddles from our tired horses, and unrolling our beds were soon lost in well-earned sleep. The stars may have twinkled overhead, and sundry voices of the night may have whispered to us as we lay down to sleep, but we were too tired for poetry or sentiment that night. The tramping of our remuda as they came trodding up to the wagon the next morning, and honey-men's calling, horses, horses, brought us to the realization that another day had dawned with its duty. McCann had stretched the ropes of our corral, for flood was as dead to the world as any of us were. But the trampling of over a hundred and forty horses and mules as they crowded inside the ropes brought them into action as well as the rest of us. We had had a good five hours' sleep, and while our mounts had been transformed from gaunt animals to round-barreled saddle-horses, that fought and struggled amongst themselves or artfully dodged the lariat loops which were being cast after them. Honey-men reported, the herd quietly grazing across the river, and after securing our mounts for the morning we breakfast before looking after the cattle. It took us less than an hour to round up and count the cattle, and then turn them loose again under herd to graze. Those of us not on herd returned to the wagon, and our foremen instructed McCann to make a two-hours' drive down the river and camp for noon, as he proposed only to graze the herd that morning. After seeing the wagon safely beyond the rocky crossing, we hunted up a good bathing-pool and desported ourselves for half an hour, taking a much-needed bath. There were trails on either side of the powder, and as our course was henceforth to the northwest, we remained on the west side and grazed or trailed down it. It was a beautiful stream of water, having its source in the Bighorn Mountains, frequently visible on our left. For the next four or five days we had easy work. There were range cattle through that section, but fearful of Texas fever their owners gave the Powder River a wide berth. With the exception of holding the herd at night, our duties were light. We caught fish and killed grouse, and the respite seemed like a holiday after our experience of the past few days. During the evening of the second day, after reaching the powder, we crossed the Crazy Woman, a clear mountain fork of the former river, and nearly as large as the parent stream. Once or twice we encountered range riders, and learned that the Crazy Woman was a stock country, a number of beef branches being located on it, stocked with Texas cattle. Somewhere near or about the Montana line, we took a left-hand trail. Flood had ridden it out until he had satisfied himself that it led over to the Tongue River and the country beyond. While large trails followed on down the powder, their direction was wrong for us, as they led us towards the Badlands and the Lower Yellowstone Country. On the second day out, after taking the left-hand trail, we encountered some rough country in passing across the saddle in a range of hills forming the divide between the powder and the Tongue Rivers. We were nearly a whole day crossing it, but had a well-used trail to follow, and down in the foothills made camp that night on a creek which emptied into the Tongue. The roughness of the trail was well compensated for, however, as it was a paradise of grass and water. We reached the Tongue River the next afternoon and found it in a similar stream to the powder, clear as crystal, swift, and with a rocky bottom. As these were but minor rivers, we encountered no trouble in crossing them, the greatest danger being to our wagon. On the Tongue we met range riders again, and from them we learned that this trail, which crossed the Yellowstone at Frenchman's Ford, was the one in use by herds bound for the Muscle Shell and remote her points on the Upper Missouri. From one rider we learned that the first herd of the present season, which went through on this route, were cattle wintered on the Neobara in western Nebraska, whose destination was Alberta in the British possessions. This herd outclassed us in penetrating northward, though in distance they had not traveled half as far as our Circle Dots. After following the Tongue River several days and coming out on that immense plain tributary to the Yellowstone, the trail turned to the northwest, gave us a short day's drive to the Rosebud River, and after following it a few miles bore off again on the same quarter. In our rear hung the mountains with their sentinel peaks, while in our front stretched the valley tributary to the Yellowstone, in extent itself an inland empire. The month was August, and with the exception of cool nights no complaint could be made, for that rarefied atmosphere was a tonic to man and beast, and there was pleasure in the primitive freshness of the country which rolled away on every hand. On leaving the Rosebud, two days' travel brought us to the east fork of Sweetgrass, an insignificant stream with a swift current and rocky crossing. In the first two hours after reaching it, we must have crossed it a half a dozen times following the grassy bottoms which shifted from one bank to the other. When we were full forty miles distant from Frenchman Ford on the Yellowstone, the wagon in crossing Sweetgrass went down a siding bank into the bottom of the creek. The left hind wheel collided with a boulder in the water, dishing it, and every spoke in the wheel snapped off at the shoulder in the fellow. McCann never noticed it, and poured the whip into the mules, and when he pulled out on the opposite bank left the fellow of his wheel in the creek behind. The herd was in the lead at the time, and when Honeyman overtook us and reported the accident, we threw the herd off to Grace, and over half the outfit returned to the wagon. When we reached the scene, McCann had recovered the fellow, but every spoke in the hub was hopelessly ruined. Flood took in the situation at a glance. He ordered the wagon unloaded, and the reach lengthened. Took the axe, and with rebel, went back about a mile to a thicket of lodge poles which we had passed higher up the creek. While the rest of us unloaded the wagon, McCann, who was swearing by both notes and rhyme, unearthed his saddle from amongst the other plunder, and cinched it on his nigh-wheeler. We had the wagon unloaded, and had reloaded some of the heaviest of the plunder in the front end of the wagon-box by the time our foreman and priest returned, dragging from their pommels a thirty-foot pole as perfect as the mast of a yacht. We knocked off all the spokes not already broken at the hub of the ruined wheel, and, after jacking up the hind axle, attached the crutch. By cutting a half-notch in the larger end of the pole, so that it fitted over the front axle, lashing it there securely, and allowing the other end to trail behind on the ground, we devised a support on which the hub of the broken wheel rested, almost at its normal height. There was sufficient spring to the pole to obviate any jolt or jar, while the rearrangement we had affected in distributing the load would relieve it of any serious burden. We took a rope from the coupling pole of the wagon, and loosely noosed it over the crutch, which allowed leeway and turning, but prevented the hub from slipping off the support on a short turn to the left. Then we lashed the tire and fellow to the front end of the wagon, and, with the loss of about a couple of hours, our commissary was again on the move. The trail followed the sweet grass down to the Yellowstone, and until we reached it, whenever there was a creek the ford, or extra poles on hills, half a dozen of us would drop back and lend a hand from our saddle-pommels. The gradual decline of the country to the river was in our favor at present, and we should reach the ford in two days at the farthest, where we hoped to find a wheel-right. In case we did not, our foreman thought he could affect the trade for a serviceable wagon, as ours was a new one, and the best make in the market. The next day flood rode on ahead to Frenchman's ford, and late in the day returned with the information that the ford was quite a pretentious frontier village of the squatter type. There was a blacksmith and a wheel-right shop in the town, but the prospect of an exchange was discouraging. As the wagons there were of the heavy freighting type, while ours was a wide tread, a serious objection, as wagons manufactured for the southern trade were eight inches wider than those used in the north, and therefore would not track on the same road. The wheel-right had assured flood that the wheel could be filled in a day, with the exception of painting, and as paint was not important he had decided to move up within three or four miles of the ford and mow over a day for repairing the wagon, and at the same time have our mules reshawed. Accordingly we moved up the next morning, and after unloading the wagon, both box and contents, over half the outfit, the first and second guards accompanied the wagon into the ford. They were to return by noon, when the remainder of us were to have our turn in seeing the sights of Frenchman's ford. The horserangler remained behind with us, to accompany the other half of the outfit in the afternoon. The herd was no trouble to hold, and after watering about the middle of the four noon, three of us went into camp and got dinner. As this was the first time, since starting, that our cook was absent, we rather enjoyed the opportunity to practice our culinary skill. Pride in our ability to cook was a weakness in our craft. The work was divided up between Joe Stallings, John Officer, and myself, honeymen being excused on agreeing to rustle the wood and water. Stallings prided himself on being an artist and making coffee, and while hunting for the coffee mill, found a bag of dried peaches. Say, fellas, said Joe, I'll bet McCann has hauled this fruit a thousand miles and never knew he had it amongst all this plunder.  Officer volunteered to cut and fry the meat, for we were eating stray beef now with great regularity, and the making of the biscuits fell to me. Honeymen soon had a fire so big that you could not have gotten near it without a wet blanket on, and when my biscuits were ready for the Dutch oven, Officer threw a bucket of water on the fire, remarking, honeymen, if you was Cousy Segundo under me, and build up such a big fire for the chef, there would be trouble in camp. You may be a good enough horse wrangler for a through Texas outfit, but when it comes to playing second fiddle to a cook of my accomplishments, well, you simply don't know salt from wild honey.  When the fire had burned down sufficiently, the cooks got their respective utensils upon the fire. I had an ample supply of live coals for the Dutch oven, and dinner was shortly afterwards announced as ready. After dinner, Officer and I relieved the men on herd, but over an hour passed before we caught sight of the first and second guards returning from the ford. They were men who could stay in town all day and enjoy themselves, but as flood had reminded them, there were others who were entitled to a holiday. When Bob Blaise and Fox Quarternight came to our relief on herd, they attempted to detain us with a description of Frenchman's ford, but we cut all conversation short by riding away to the camp. We'll just save them the trouble and go in and see it for ourselves, said Officer to me, as we galloped along. We had left word with Honeyman what horses we wanted to ride that afternoon, and lost little time in changing mounts. Then we all set out to pay our respects to the mushroom village on the Yellowstone. Most of us had money, and those of the outfit who had returned were clean shaven and brought the report that a shave was two bits and a drink the same price. The town struck me as something new and novel, two-thirds of the habitations being canvas. Immense quantities of buffalo hides were drying or already bailed, and waiting transportation as we afterward learned to navigable points on the Missouri. Large bull trains were encamped on the outskirts of the village, while many such outfits were in town receiving cargoes or discharging freight. The drivers of these ox trains lounged in the streets and thronged the saloons and gambling resorts. The population was extremely mixed, and almost every language could be heard spoken on the streets. The men were fine types of the pioneer, buffalo hunters, freighters, and other planesmen, though as hardly picturesque in figure and costume as a modern artist would paint them. For native coloring, there were typical specimens of northern Indians grunting their jargon amid the babble of other tongues, and groups of squaws wandered through the irregular streets in gaudy blankets and red calico. The only civilizing element to be seen was the camp of engineers running the survey of the northern Pacific railroad. Tire no horses in a group to a hitch rack in the rear of a saloon called the Buffalo Bull, we entered by a rear door and lined up at the bar for our first drink since leaving Ogallala. Games of chance were running in the rear for those who felt inclined to try their luck, while in front of the bar, against the farther wall, were a number of small tables, around which were seated the patrons of the place, playing for drinks. One couldn't help being impressed with the unrestrained freedom of the village, whose sole product seemed to be buffalo hides. Every man in the place wore the regulation six-shooter in his belt, and quite a number wore two. The primitive law of nature, known as self-preservation, was very evident in August of 82 at Frenchman's Ford. It reminded me of the early days at home in Texas, where on a rising in the morning, one buckled on his six-shooter as though it were part of his dress. After a second round of drinks, we strolled out into the front street to look up flood and mccann, and incidentally get a shave. We soon located mccann, who had a hunk of dried buffalo meat, and was chipping it off and feeding it to some Indian children, whose acquaintance he seemed to be cultivating. On sighting us, he gave the children the remainder of the jerked buffalo, and at once placed himself at our disposal, as guide to Frenchman's Ford. He had been all over the town that morning, and knew the name of every saloon and those of several barkeepers as well. Pointed out the bullet holes in the log building, where the last shooting scrape occurred, and otherwise showed us the sights in the village which we might have overlooked. A barber shop? Well certainly, and he led the way, informing us that the wagon wheel would be filled by evening, that the mules were already shod, and that flood had ridden down to the crossing to look at the Ford. Two barbers turned us out rapidly, and as we left we continued to take in the town, strolling by pairs and drinking moderately as we went. Flood had returned in the meantime, and seemed rather convivial, and quite willing to enjoy the enforced layover with us. While taking a drink in Yellowstone Bob's place, the foreman took occasion to call the attention of the rebel to a cheap lithograph of General Grant which hung behind the bar. The two discussed the merits of the picture, and Priest, who was an admirer of the magnanimity as well as the military genius of Grant, spoke in reserved yet favorable terms of the general. When Flood flippantly chided him on his eulogistic remarks over an officer to whom he had once been surrendered, the rebel took the chafing in good humor, and when our glasses were filled, Flood suggested to Priest that since she was such an admirer of Grant, possibly he wished to propose a toast to the general's health. Your young Jim, said the rebel, and if you've gone through what I have, your views of things might be different. My admiration for the generals on our side survived wounds, prisons, and changes of fortune, but time has tempered my views on some things, and now I don't enthuse over generals when the men of the ranks who made them famous are forgotten. Through the fortunes of war I salute at Grant when we were surrendered, but I wouldn't propose a toast or take off my hat now to any man that lives. During the comments of the rebel, a stranger who evidently overheard them rose from one of the tables in a place and sauntered over to the end of the bar, an attentive listener to the succeeding conversation. He was a younger man than Priest, with a head of heavy black hair reaching his shoulders, while his dress was largely of buckskin, profusely ornamented with beadwork and fringes. He was armed, as was everyone else, and from his languid demeanor as well as from his smart appearance one would classify him at a passing glance as a frontier gambler. As we turned away from the bar to an unoccupied table Priest waited for his change, when the stranger accosted him with an inquiry as to where he was from. In the conversation that ensued, the stranger who had noticed the good-humored manner in which the rebel had taken the chiding of our foreman, pretending to take him to task for some of his remarks. But in this he made a mistake. What his friends might safely say to Priest would be treated as an insult from a stranger. Seeing that he would not stand as chiding, the other attempted to mollify him by proposing they have a drink together, and part friendly, to which the rebel assented. I was pleased with the favorable turn of affairs, for my bunkie had used some rather severe language in resenting the remarks of the stranger, which now had the promise of being dropped amicably. I knew the temper of Priest and so did Flood and Honeyman, and we were all anxious to get him away from the stranger, so I asked our foreman as soon as they had drunk together. To go over and tell Priest we were waiting for him to make up a game of cards. The two were standing at the bar in a most friendly attitude, but as they raised their glasses to drink, the stranger, holding his at arm's length, said, Here's a toast for you. To General Grant, the ablest. But the toast was never finished. For Priest dashed the contents of his glass in the stranger's face, and calmly replacing the glass on the bar, back to cross the room towards us. When half across, a sudden movement on the part of the stranger caused him to halt. But it seemed the picturesque gentleman beside the bar was only searching his pockets for a handkerchief. Don't you get your hand on that gun you wear? said the rebel, whose blood was up, unless you intend to use it. But you can't shoot a minute too quick to suit me. What do you wear a gun for anyhow? Let's see how straight you can shoot. As the stranger made no reply, Priest continued, The next time you have anything to rub in, pick your man better. The man who insults me gets all that's due him for his trouble.  I'll give you another, Jeff Davis and the Southern Confederacy. We all rose from the table and flood-going over to Priest said, Come along, Paul. We don't want to have any trouble here. Let's go across the street and have a game of California Jack. But the rebel stood like a chiseled statue, ignoring the friendly counsel of our foreman, while the stranger, after wiping the liquor from his face and person, walked across the room and seated himself at the table from which he had risen. The stillness of death pervaded the room, which was only broken by our foreman repeating his request to Priest to come away. But the latter replied, No. When I leave this place it will not be done in fear of anyone. When a man goes out of his way to insult me, he must take the consequences, and he can always find me if he wants satisfaction. We'll take another drink before we go. Everybody in the house, come up and take a drink with Paul Priest. The inmates of the place, to the number of possibly twenty, who had been witness to what had occurred except at the invitation, quitting their games and gathering around the bar. Priest took a position at the end of the bar where he could notice any movement on the part of his adversary, as well as the faces of his guests, and smiling on them said in true hospitality, What will you have, gentlemen? There was a forced effort on the part of the drinkers to appear indifferent to the situation, but with a stranger sitting sullenly in their rear and an iron-grey man standing at the farther end of the line, hungering for an opportunity to settle differences with six shooters, their indifference was an empty mockery. Some of the players returned to their games while others sauntered into the street. Yet Priest showed no disposition to go. After a while the stranger walked over to the bar and called for a glass of whiskey. The rebel stood at the end of the bar calmly rolling a cigarette, and as the stranger seemed not to notice him, Priest attracted his attention and said, I'm just passing through here, and shall only be in town this afternoon. So if there's anything between us that demands settlement, don't hesitate to ask for it. The stranger drained his glass at a single gulp, and with admirable composure replied, If there's anything between us, we'll settle it in due time, and as men usually settle such differences in this country. I have a friend or two in town, and as soon as I have seen them, you will receive notice or you may consider the matter dropped. That's all I care to say at present. He walked away to the rear of the room. Priest joined us and we strolled out of the place. In the street a grizzled gray bearded man who had drunk with him inside approached my bunkie and said, You want to watch that fellow? He claims to be from Galatin County, but he isn't. For I live there. There's a pal with him, and they've got some good horses. But I know every brand on the headwaters of the Missouri, and their horses were never bred on any of its three forks. Don't give him any the best of you. Keep an eye on him, comrade. After this morning, the old man turned into the first open door, and we crossed over to the wheel-right shop. And as the wheel would not be finished for several hours yet, we continued our survey of the town. And our next landing was at the Buffalo Bowl. On entering, we found four of our men in a game of cards at the very first table, while officer was reported as being in the gambling room in the rear. The only vacant table in the bar room was the last one in the far corner. And calling for a deck of cards, we occupied it. I sat with my back to the log wall of the low one-story room. While on my left, in fronting the door, Priest took a seat with Flood for his partner. Well, honeyman fell to me. After playing a few hands, Flood suggested that we go forward and exchange seats with some of our outfit, so as to be near the door where he could see anyone that entered. While from his position, the rear door would be similarly guarded. Under this change, Rod Wheat came back to our table and took honeyman's place. We had been playing along for an hour, with people passing in and out of the gambling room, and expected shortly to start for camp. When Priest's long-haired adversary came in at the front door and walking through the room passed into the gambling department. John Officer, after winning a few dollars in the card room, was standing alongside watching our game, and as a stranger passed by, Priest gave him the wink, on which officer followed the stranger and a heavy-set companion who was with him into the rear room. We had played only a few hands when the heavy-set man came back to the bar, took a drink, and walked over to watch a game of cards at the second table from the front door. Officer came back shortly afterwards and whispered to us that there were four of them to look out for, as he had seen them conferring together. Priest seemed the least concerned of any of us, but I noticed he eased the holster on his belt forward, where it would be ready to his hand. We had called for a round of drinks, Officer taking one with us. When two men came out of the gambling hall and halting at the bar, pretended to divide some money which they wished to have it appear that they had won in the card room. Their conversation was loud and intended to attract attention, but Officer gave us the wink and their ruse was perfectly understood. After taking a drink and attracting as much attention as possible over the division of the money, they separated, but remained in the room. I was dealing the cards a few minutes later when the long-haired man emerged from the gambling hall and, imitating the maudlin, sauntered up to the bar and asked for a drink. After being served he walked about halfway to the door, then whirling suddenly, stepped to the end of the bar, placed his hands upon it, sprang up and stood upright on it. He whipped out two six-shooters, let Lucy yell which caused a commotion throughout the room, and walked very deliberately, the length of the counter, his attention centered upon the occupants of our table. Not attracting the notice he expected in our quarter, he turned and slowly repaced the bar, hurling anethemas on Texas and Texans in general. I saw the rebels' eyes, steeled to intensity, meet floods across the table, and in that glance of our foreman he evidently read approval, for he rose rigidly with the stealth of a tiger, and for the first time that day his hand went to the handle of a six-shooter. One of the two pretendent winners at cards saw the movement in our quarter and sang out a warning, SIDALDO MUCHO! The man on the bar whirled on the word of warning, and blazed away with his two guns into our corner. I had risen at the word and was pinned against the wall, where on the first fire a rain of dirt fell from the chinking in the wall over my head. As soon as the others sprang away from the table, I kicked it over in clearing myself, and came to my feet just as the rebel fired his second shot. I had the satisfaction of seeing his long-haired adversary, real backwards, firing his guns into the ceiling as he went, and, in falling, crash heavily into the glass ware on the back bar. The smoke which filled the room left nothing visible for a few moments. Meantime, Priest satisfied that his aim had gone true, turned, passed through the rear room, gained his horse, and was galloping away to the herd before any semblance of order was restored. As the smoke cleared away and we passed forward through the room, John Officer had one of the three partners standing with his hands to the wall, while a six-shooter lay on the floor under Officer's foot. He had made but one shot into our corner when the muzzle of a gun was pushed against his ear with an imperative order to drop his arms, which he had promptly done. The two others, who had been under the surveillance of our men at the forward table, never made a move or offered to bring a gun into action, and after the killing of their picturesque partner passed together out of the house. There had been five or six shots fired into our corner, but the first double shot, fired when three of us were still sitting, went too high for effect, while the remainder were scattering. The rod-wheat got a bullet through his coat close enough to burn the skin on his shoulder. The dead man was laid out on the floor of the saloon, and through curiosity, for it could hardly have been much of a novelty to the inhabitants of Frenchman's Ford, hundreds came to gaze on the corpse and examine the wounds, one above the other through his vitals, either of which would have been fatal. Officer's prisoner admitted that the dead man was his partner and offered to remove the corpse if released. On turning his six-shooter over to the proprietor of the place, he was given his freedom to depart and look up his friends. As it was after sundown and our wheel was refilled and ready, we set out for camp where we found a priest had taken a fresh horse and started back over the trail. No one felt any uneasiness over his absence, for he had demonstrated his ability to protect himself, and truth compels me to say that the outfit to a man was proud of him. Honeyman was substituted on our guard in the rebel's place, sleeping with me that night, and after we were in bed, Billy said in his enthusiasm, if that horse-thief had not relied on pot-shooting, and had been modest and only used one gun, he might have hurt some of you fellows. But when I saw Paul rising his gun to a level as he shot, I knew he was cool and steady, and I'd rather died right there than to see him fail to get his man.