“While crossing ‘No-Man’s-Land’ a month later,—­I was on herd myself at the time, a bright moonlight night,—­they jumped like a cat shot with No. 8’s, and quit the bed-ground instanter.  There were three of us on guard at the time, and before the other boys could get out of their blankets and into their saddles the herd had gotten well under headway.  Even when the others came to our assistance, it took us some time to quiet them down.  As this scare came during last guard, daylight was on us before they had quit milling, and we were three miles from the wagon.  As we drifted them back towards camp, for fear that something might have gotten away, most of the boys scoured the country for miles about, but without reward.  When all had returned to camp, had breakfasted, and changed horses, the counting act was ordered by Mr. Medicine.  Our foreman naturally felt that he would have to take a hand in this count, evidently forgetting his last experience in that line.  He was surprised, when he asked one of the boys to help him, by receiving a flat refusal.

“‘Why won’t you count with me?’ he demanded.

“’Because you don’t possess common cow sense enough, nor is the crude material in you to make a cow-hand.  You found fault with the men the last count we had, and I don’t propose to please you by giving you a chance to find fault with me.  That’s why I won’t count with you.’

“‘Don’t you know, sir, that I’m in authority here?’ retorted the foreman.

“’Well, if you are, no one seems to respect your authority, as you’re pleased to call it, and I don’t know of any reason why I should.  You have plenty of men here who can count them correctly.  I’ll count them with any man in the outfit but yourself.’

“‘Our company sent me as their representative with this herd,’ replied the foreman, ’while you have the insolence to disregard my orders.  I’ll discharge you the first moment I can get a man to take your place.’

“‘Oh, that’ll be all right,’ answered the lad, as the foreman rode away.  He then tackled me, but I acted foolish, ’fessing up that I couldn’t count a hundred.  Finally he rode around to a quiet little fellow, with pox-marks on his face, who always rode on the point, kept his horses fatter than anybody, rode a San Jose saddle, and was called Californy.  The boss asked him to help him count the herd.

“‘Now look here, boss,’ said Californy, ’I’ll pick one of the boys to help me, and we’ll count the cattle to within a few head.  Won’t that satisfy you?’

“‘No, sir, it won’t.  What’s got into you boys?’ questioned the foreman.

“’There’s nothing the matter with the boys, but the cattle business has gone to the dogs when a valuable herd like this will be trusted to cross a country for two thousand miles in the hands of a man like yourself.  You have men that will pull you through if you’ll only let them,’ said the point-rider, his voice mild and kind as though he were speaking to a child.