“Can you sabe where the fun comes in to a steer, to get down on his knees in the mud and dirt, and horn the bank and muss up his curls and enjoy it like that?” inquired Strayhorn of Blades and me.

“Because it’s healthy and funny besides,” replied Bob, giving me a cautious wink.  “Did you never hear of people taking mud baths?  You’ve seen dogs eat grass, haven’t you?  Well, it’s something on the same order.  Now, if I was a student of the nature of animals, like you are, I’d get off my horse and imagine I had horns, and scar and otherwise mangle that mud bank shamefully.  I’ll hold your horse if you want to try it—­some of the secrets of the humor of cattle might be revealed to you.”

The banter, though given in jest, was too much for this member of a craft that can always be depended on to do foolish things; and when we rejoined the outfit, Strayhorn presented a sight no sane man save a member of our tribe ever would have conceived of.

The herd had scattered over several thousand acres after leaving the river, grazing freely, and so remained during the rest of the evening.  Forrest changed horses and set out down the river to find the wagon and pilot it in, for with the long distance that McCann had to cover, it was a question if he would reach us before dark.  Flood selected a bed ground and camp about a mile out from the river, and those of the outfit not on herd dragged up an abundance of wood for the night, and built a roaring fire as a beacon to our absent commissary.  Darkness soon settled over camp, and the prospect of a supperless night was confronting us; the first guard had taken the herd, and yet there was no sign of the wagon.  Several of us youngsters then mounted our night horses and rode down the river a mile or over in the hope of meeting McCann.  We came to a steep bank, caused by the shifting of the first bottom of the river across to the north bank, rode up this bluff some little distance, dismounted, and fired several shots; then with our ears to the earth patiently awaited a response.  It did not come, and we rode back again.  “Hell’s fire and little fishes!” said Joe Stallings, as we clambered into our saddles to return, “it’s not supper or breakfast that’s troubling me, but will we get any dinner to-morrow?  That’s a more pregnant question.”

It must have been after midnight when I was awakened by the braying of mules and the rattle of the wagon, to hear the voices of Forrest and McCann, mingled with the rattle of chains as they unharnessed, condemning to eternal perdition the broken country on the north side of the Brazos, between Round Timber ferry and the mouth of Monday Creek.