Our camp was astir by daybreak, and after breakfast, as we were catching our mounts for the day, one of the Apaches offered to take a certain pinto horse in our remuda in lieu of the promised beef, but Flood declined the offer.  On overtaking the herd after breakfast, Quarternight cut out a fat two year old stray heifer, and he and I assisted our guests to drive their beef several miles toward their village.  Finally bidding them farewell, we returned to the herd, when the outfit informed us that Flood and The Rebel had ridden on ahead to look out a crossing on the Salt Fork.  From this move it was evident that if a passable ford could be found, our foreman intended to abandon the established route and avoid the big Indian encampment.

On the return of Priest and Flood about noon, they reported having found an easy ford of the Salt Fork, which, from the indications of their old trails centring from every quarter at this crossing, must have been used by buffalo for generations.  After dinner we put our wagon in the lead, and following close at hand with the cattle, turned off the trail about a mile above our noon camp and struck to the westward for the crossing.  This we reached and crossed early that evening, camping out nearly five miles to the west of the river.  Rain was always to be dreaded in trail work, and when bedding down the herd that night, we had one of the heaviest downpours which we had experienced since leaving the Rio Grande.  It lasted several hours, but we stood it uncomplainingly, for this fortunate drenching had obliterated every trace left by our wagon and herd since abandoning the trail, as well as the sign left at the old buffalo crossing on the Salt Fork.  The rain ceased about ten o’clock, when the cattle bedded down easily, and the second guard took them for their watch.  Wood was too scarce to afford a fire, and while our slickers had partially protected us from the rain, many of us went to bed in wet clothing that night.  After another half day’s drive to the west, we turned northward and traveled in that direction through a nice country, more or less broken with small hills, but well watered.  On the morning of the first day after turning north, Honeyman reported a number of our saddle horses had strayed from camp.  This gave Flood some little uneasiness, and a number of us got on our night horses without loss of time and turned out to look up the missing saddle stock.  The Rebel and I set out together to the southward, while others of the outfit set off to the other points of the compass.

I was always a good trailer, was in fact acknowledged to be one of the best, with the exception of my brother Zack, on the San Antonio River, where we grew up as boys.  In circling about that morning, I struck the trail of about twenty horses—­the missing number—­and at once signaled to Priest, who was about a mile distant, to join me.  The ground was fortunately fresh from the recent rain and left an easy trail.  We galloped along it