Sometimes I would sell out in a few days, and then again it would take me longer.But when possible I always made it a rule to get back to my headquarters to spend Sunday.The owner of the cane-brake and his wife were a simple couple, and just a shade or two above the Arcadians.But they had a daughter who could pass muster, and she took quite a shine to the 'Texas-Hoss-Man,' as they called me.I reckon you understand now why I made that headquarters?--there were other reasons besides the good pasturage.
"Well, the girl and her mother both could read, but I have some doubt about the old man on that score.They took no papers, and the nearest approach to a book in the house was an almanac three years old.The women folks were ravenous for something to read, and each time on my return after selling out, I'd bring them a whole bundle of illustrated papers and magazines.About my fourth return after more horses,--I was mighty near one of the family by that time,--when we were all seated around the fire one night, the women poring over the papers and admiring the pictures, the old man inquired what the news was over in the parish where I had recently been.The only thing that I could remember was the suicide of a prominent man.After explaining the circumstances, Iwent on to say that some little bitterness arose over his burial.
Owing to his prominence it was thought permission would be given to bury him in the churchyard.But it seems there was some superstition about permitting a self-murderer to be buried in the same field as decent folks.It was none of my funeral, and Ididn't pay overmuch attention to the matter, but the authorities refused, and they buried him just outside the grounds, in the woods.
"My host and I discussed the matter at some length.He contended that if the man was not of sound mind, he should have been given his little six feet of earth among the others.A horse salesman has to be a good second-rate talker, and being anxious to show off before the girl, I differed with her father.The argument grew spirited yet friendly, and I appealed to the women in supporting my view.My hostess was absorbed at the time in reading a sensational account of a woman shooting her betrayer.
The illustrations covered a whole page, and the girl was simply burning, at short range, the shirt from off her seducer.The old lady was bogged to the saddle skirts in the story, when Iinterrupted her and inquired,'mother, what do you think ought to be done with a man who commits suicide?' She lowered the paper just for an instant, and looking over her spectacles at me replied, 'Well, I think any man who would do THAT ought to be made to support the child.'"No comment was offered.Our wrangler arose and strolled away from the fire under the pretense of repicketing his horse.It was nearly time for the guards to change, and giving the last watch orders to point the herd, as they left the bed-ground in the morning, back on an angle towards the trail, I prepared to turn in.While I was pulling off my boots in the act of retiring, Clay Zilligan rode in from the herd to call the relief.The second guard were bridling their horses, and as Zilligan dismounted, he said to the circle of listeners, "Didn't I tell you fellows that there was another herd just ahead of us? I don't care if they didn't pass up the trail since we ye been laying over, they are there just the same.Of course you can't see their camp-fire from here, but it's in plain view from the bed-ground, and not over four or five miles away.If I remember rightly, there's a local trail comes in from the south of the Wichita River, and joins the Chisholm just ahead.And what's more, that herd was there at nine o'clock this morning, and they haven't moved a peg since.Well, there's two lads out there waiting to be relieved, and you second guard know where the cattle are bedded."
