Our cattle quieted down nicely after this run, and the next few weeks brought not an incident worth recording.  There was no regular trail through the lower counties, so we simply kept to the open country.  Spring had advanced until the prairies were swarded with grass and flowers, while water, though scarcer, was to be had at least once daily.  We passed to the west of San Antonio—­an outfitting point which all herds touched in passing northward—­and Flood and our cook took the wagon and went in for supplies.  But the outfit with the herd kept on, now launched on a broad, well-defined trail, in places seventy-five yards wide, where all local trails blent into the one common pathway, known in those days as the Old Western Trail.  It is not in the province of this narrative to deal with the cause or origin of this cattle trail, though it marked the passage of many hundred thousand cattle which preceded our Circle Dots, and was destined to afford an outlet to several millions more to follow.  The trail proper consisted of many scores of irregular cow paths, united into one broad passageway, narrowing and widening as conditions permitted, yet ever leading northward.  After a few years of continued use, it became as well defined as the course of a river.

Several herds which had started farther up country were ahead of ours, and this we considered an advantage, for wherever one herd could go, it was reasonable that others could follow.  Flood knew the trail as well as any of the other foremen, but there was one thing he had not taken into consideration:  the drouth of the preceding summer.  True, there had been local spring showers, sufficient to start the grass nicely, but water in such quantities as we needed was growing daily more difficult to find.  The first week after leaving San Antonio, our foreman scouted in quest of water a full day in advance of the herd.  One evening he returned to us with the news that we were in for a dry drive, for after passing the next chain of lakes it was sixty miles to the next water, and reports regarding the water supply even after crossing this arid stretch were very conflicting.

“While I know every foot of this trail through here,” said the foreman, “there’s several things that look scaly.  There are only five herds ahead of us, and the first three went through the old route, but the last two, after passing Indian Lakes, for some reason or other turned and went westward.  These last herds may be stock cattle, pushing out west to new ranges; but I don’t like the outlook.  It would take me two days to ride across and back, and by that time we could be two thirds of the way through.  I’ve made this drive before without a drop of water on the way, and wouldn’t dread it now, if there was any certainty of water at the other end.  I reckon there’s nothing to do but tackle her; but isn’t this a hell of a country?  I’ve ridden fifty miles to-day and never saw a soul.”