An hour or two after the herd had started the next morning, four well mounted, strange men rode up from the westward, and representing themselves as trail cutters, asked for our foreman.  Flood met them, in his usual quiet manner, and after admitting that we had been troubled more or less with range cattle, assured our callers that if there was anything in the herd in the brands they represented, he would gladly hold it up and give them every opportunity to cut their cattle out.  As he was anxious to cross the river before noon, he invited the visitors to stay for dinner, assuring them that before starting the herd in the afternoon, he would throw the cattle together for their inspection.  Flood made himself very agreeable, inquiring into cattle and range matters in general as well as the stage of water in the river ahead.  The spokesman of the trail cutters met Flood’s invitation to dinner with excuses about the pressing demands on his time, and urged, if it did not seriously interfere with our plans, that he be allowed to inspect the herd before crossing the river.  His reasons seemed trivial and our foreman was not convinced.

“You see, gentlemen,” he said, “in handling these southern cattle, we must take advantage of occasions.  We have timed our morning’s drive so as to reach the river during the warmest hour of the day, or as near noon as possible.  You can hardly imagine what a difference there is, in fording this herd, between a cool, cloudy day and a clear, hot one.  You see the herd is strung out nearly a mile in length now, and to hold them up and waste an hour or more for your inspection would seriously disturb our plans.  And then our wagon and remuda have gone on with orders to noon at the first good camp beyond the river.  I perfectly understand your reasons, and you equally understand mine; but I will send a man or two back to help you recross any cattle you may find in our herd.  Now, if a couple of you gentlemen will ride around on the far side with me, and the others will ride up near the lead, we will trail the cattle across when we reach the river without cutting the herd into blocks.”

Flood’s affability, coupled with the fact that the lead cattle were nearly up to the river, won his point.  Our visitors could only yield, and rode forward with our lead swing men to assist in forcing the lead cattle into the river.  It was swift water, but otherwise an easy crossing, and we allowed the herd, after coming out on the farther side, to spread out and graze forward at its pleasure.  The wagon and saddle stock were in sight about a mile ahead, and leaving two men on herd to drift the cattle in the right direction, the rest of us rode leisurely on to the wagon, where dinner was waiting.  Flood treated our callers with marked courtesy during dinner, and casually inquired if any of their number had seen any cattle that day or the day previous in the Ellison road brand.  They had not, they said, explaining that their range lay on both sides of the Concho, and that during the trail season they kept all their cattle between that river and the main Colorado.  Their work had kept them on their own range recently, except when trail herds were passing and needed to be looked through for strays.  It sounded as though our trail cutters could also use diplomacy on occasion.