I could see nothing reassuring in the outlook.  Near the wells and along the river the stock had trampled out the grass until the ground was as bare as a city street.  Miles distant from the water the old dry grass, with only an occasional green blade, was the only grazing for the cattle.  The black, waxy soil on the first bottom of the river, on which the mesquite grass had flourished, was as bare now as a ploughed field, while the ground had cracked open in places to an incredible depth, so that without exercising caution it was dangerous to ride across.  This was the condition of the range at the approach of April.  Our horse stock, to be sure, fared better, ranging farther and not requiring anything like the amount of water needed by the cattle.  It was nothing unusual to meet a Las Palomas manada from ten to twelve miles from the river, and coming in only every second or third night to quench their thirst.  We were fortunate in having an abundance of saddle horses, which, whether under saddle or not, were always given the preference in the matter of water.  They were the motive power of the ranch, and during this crisis, though worked hard, must be favored in every possible manner.

Early that spring the old ranchero sent Deweese to Lagarto in an attempt to sell Captain Byler a herd of horse stock for the trail.  The mission was a failure, though our segundo offered to sell a thousand, in the straight Las Palomas brand, at seven dollars a head on a year’s credit.  Even this was no inducement to the trail drover, and on Deweese’s return my employer tried San Antonio and other points in Texas in the hope of finding a market.  From several places favorable replies were received, particularly from places north of the Colorado River; for the drouth was local and was chiefly confined to the southern portion of the state.  There was enough encouragement in the letters to justify the old ranchero’s attempt to reduce the demand on the ranch’s water supply, by sending a herd of horse stock north on sale.  Under ordinary conditions, every ranchman preferred to sell his surplus stock at the ranch, and Las Palomas was no exception, being generally congested with marketable animals.  San Antonio was, however, beginning to be a local horse and mule market of some moment, and before my advent several small selected bunches of mares, mules, and saddle horses had been sent there, and had found a ready and profitable sale.

But this was an emergency year, and it was decided to send a herd of stock horses up the country.  Accordingly, before April, we worked every manada which we expected to keep, cutting out all the two-year-old fillies.  To these were added every mongrel-colored band to the number of twenty odd, and when ready to start the herd numbered a few over twelve hundred of all ages from yearlings up.  A remuda of fifty saddle horses, broken in the spring of ’76, were allotted to our use, and our segundo, myself, and five Mexican vaqueros were detailed to drive the herd.  We were allowed two pack mules for our commissary, which was driven with the remuda.  With instructions to sell and hurry home, we left our horse camp on the river, and started on the morning of the last day of March.