son reflecting the art of the barber, while John Officer had his blond mustaches blackened, waxed, and curled like a French dancing master.  “If some of you boys will hold him,” said Moss Strayhorn, commenting on Officer’s appearance, “I’d like to take a good smell of him, just to see if he took oil up there where the end of his neck’s haired over.”  As Officer already had several drinks comfortably stowed away under his belt, and stood up strong six feet two, none of us volunteered.

After packing away our plunder, we sauntered around town, drinking moderately, and visiting the various saloons and gambling houses.  I clung to my bunkie, The Rebel, during the rounds, for I had learned to like him, and had confidence he would lead me into no indiscretions.  At the Long Branch, we found Quince Forrest and Wyatt Roundtree playing the faro bank, the former keeping cases.  They never recognized us, but were answering a great many questions, asked by the dealer and lookout, regarding the possible volume of the cattle drive that year.  Down at another gambling house, The Rebel met Ben Thompson, a faro dealer not on duty and an old cavalry comrade, and the two cronied around for over an hour like long lost brothers, pledging anew their friendship over several social glasses, in which I was always included.  There was no telling how long this reunion would have lasted, but happily for my sake, Lovell—­who had been asleep all the morning—­started out to round us up for dinner with him at the Wright House, which was at that day a famous hostelry, patronized almost exclusively by the Texas cowmen and cattle buyers.

We made the rounds of the gambling houses, looking for our crowd.  We ran across three of the boys piking at a monte game, who came with us reluctantly; then, guided by Lovell, we started for the Long Branch, where we felt certain we would find Forrest and Roundtree, if they had any money left.  Forrest was broke, which made him ready to come, and Roundtree, though quite a winner, out of deference to our employer’s wishes, cashed in and joined us.  Old man Don could hardly do enough for us; and before we could reach the Wright House, had lined us up against three different bars; and while I had confidence in my navigable capacity, I found they were coming just a little too fast and free, seeing I had scarcely drunk anything in three months but branch water.  As we lined up at the Wright House bar for the final before dinner, The Rebel, who was standing next to me, entered a waiver and took a cigar, which I understood to be a hint, and I did likewise.

We had a splendid dinner.  Our outfit, with McNulta, occupied a ten-chair table, while on the opposite side of the room was another large table, occupied principally by drovers who were waiting for their herds to arrive.  Among those at the latter table, whom I now remember, was “Uncle” Henry Stevens, Jesse Ellison, “Lum” Slaughter, John Blocker, Ike Pryor, “Dun” Houston, and last but not least, Colonel “Shanghai” Pierce.  The latter was possibly the most widely known cowman between the Rio Grande and the British possessions.  He stood six feet four in his stockings, was gaunt and raw-boned, and the possessor of a voice which, even in ordinary conversation, could be distinctly heard across the street.