back to a ranch on the Texas side.  Several days afterward the darky overtook us with the word that his master would be unable to accompany the cattle, and that I was to take the herd through to Abilene.  The negro remained with us, and at the first opportunity I picked up another man.  Within a week we encountered a country trail, bearing slightly northwest, over which herds had recently passed.  This trace led us into another, which followed up the south side of the Washita River, and two weeks after reaching the Nation we entered what afterward became famous as the Chisholm trail.  The Chickasaw was one of the civilized tribes; its members had intermarried with the whites until their identity as Indians was almost lost.  They owned fine homes and farms in the Washita valley, were hospitable to strangers, and where the aboriginal blood was properly diluted the women were strikingly beautiful.  In this same valley, fifteen years afterward, I saw a herd of one thousand and seven head of corn-fed cattle.  The grain was delivered at feed-lots at ten cents a bushel, and the beeves had then been on full feed for nine months.  There were no railroads in the country and the only outlet for the surplus corn was to feed it to cattle and drive them to some shipping-point in Kansas.

Compared with the route to Fort Sumner, the northern one was a paradise.  No day passed but there was an abundance of water, while the grass simply carpeted the country.  We merely soldiered along, crossing what was then one of the No-man’s lands and the Cherokee Outlet, never sighting another herd until after entering Kansas.  We amused ourselves like urchins out for a holiday, the country was full of all kinds of game, and our darky cook was kept busy frying venison and roasting turkeys.  A calf was born on the trail, the mother of which was quite gentle, and we broke her for a milk cow, while “Bull,” the youngster, became a great pet.  A cow-skin was slung under the wagon for carrying wood and heavy cooking utensils, and the calf was given a berth in the hammock until he was able to follow.  But when Bull became older he hung around the wagon like a dog, preferring the company of the outfit to that of his own mother.  He soon learned to eat cold biscuit and corn-pone, and would hang around at meal-time, ready for the scraps.  We always had to notice where the calf lay down to sleep, as he was a black rascal, and the men were liable to stumble over him while changing guards during the night.  He never could be prevailed on to walk with his mother, but followed the wagon or rode in his hammock, and was always happy as a lark when the recipient of the outfit’s attentions.  We sometimes secured as much as two gallons of milk a day from the cow, but it was pitiful to watch her futile efforts at coaxing her offspring away from the wagon.