“Well, they’re going to cross 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.  I wish every horse of mine had a nigger brand on him, and I had to ride in the wagon, when it comes to swimming these rivers.  And I’m not the only one that has a distaste for a wet proposition, for I wouldn’t have to guess twice as to what’s the 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 the 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 fords 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 noticed, Ash, that riot 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 Rio Grande the day we received the herd, and now that I understood handling him better, I preferred him to 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 shoot 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 sutler 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 of a 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