I took a night train for the north, connected with a boat on the Missouri River, and by finally taking stage reached Fort Randall.  The mental worry of those four days would age an ordinary man, but on my arrival at the post a message from my active partner informed me that my cattle had reached Dodge City two weeks before my leaving.  Then the scales fell from my eyes, as I could understand that when inquiries were made for the Salt Fork, some wayfarer had given that name to the Red Fork; and the new Dodge trail turned to the left, from the Chisholm, at Little Turkey, the first creek crossed after leaving the river.  The message was supplemented a few days later by a letter, stating that Dodge City would possibly be a better market than the Bend, and that my interests would be looked after as well as if I were present.  A load was lifted from my shoulders, and when the wintered cattle passed Randall, the whole post turned out to see the beef herd on its way up to Lincoln.  The government line of forts along the Missouri River had the whitest lot of officers that it was ever my good fortune to meet.  I was from Texas, my tongue and colloquialisms of speech proclaimed me Southern-born, and when I admitted having served in the Confederate army, interest and attention was only heightened, while every possible kindness was simply showered on me.

The first delivery occurred at Fort Lincoln.  It was a very simple affair.  We cut out half a dozen average beeves, killed, dressed, and weighed them, and an honest average on the herd was thus secured.  The contract called for one and a half million pounds on foot; our tender overran twelve per cent; but this surplus was accepted and paid for.  The second delivery was at Fort Pierre and the last at Randall, both of which passed pleasantly, the many acquaintances among army men that summer being one of my happiest memories.  Leaving Randall, we put in to the nearest railroad point returning, where thirty men were sent home, after which we swept down the country and arrived at Great Bend during the last week in September.  My active partner had handled his assignment of the summer’s work in a masterly manner, having wholesaled my herd at Dodge City at as good figures as our other cattle brought in retail quantities at The Bend.  The former point had received three hundred and fifty thousand Texas cattle that summer, while every one conceded that Great Bend’s business as a trail terminal would close with that season.  The latter had handled nearly a quarter-million cattle that year, but like Abilene, Wichita, and other trail towns in eastern Kansas, it was doomed to succumb to the advance guard of pioneer settlers.