It was late that night when I reached the herd.Before I parted with my employer we had carefully reviewed the situation in its minutest details.Since the future could not be foreseen, we could only watch and wait.The Texan may have his shortcomings, but lack of fidelity to a trust is not one of them, and relying on the metal of my outfit, I at once put them in possession of the facts.At first their simple minds could hardly grasp the enormity of the injustice to our employer, but once the land lay clear, they would gladly have led a forlorn hope in Don Lovell's interests.Agitation oyer the matter was maintained at white heat for several days, as we again angled back towards the Cimarron.
Around the camp-fires at night, the chicanery of The Western Supply Company gave place to the best stories at our command.
"There ought to be a law," said Runt Pickett, in wrathy indignation, "making it legal to kill some people, same as rattlesnakes.Now, you take a square gambler and I don't think anything of losing my money against his game, but one of these sneaking, under-dealing, top-and-bottom-business pimps, I do despise.You can find them in every honest calling, same as vultures hover round when cattle are dying.Honest, fellows, I'd just dearly love to pull on a rope and watch one of the varmints make his last kick."Several days of showery weather followed.Crossing the Cimarron, we followed up its north slope to within thirty miles of the regular western trail.Not wishing to intercept it until necessity compelled us, when near the Kansas line we made our last tack for Dodge.The rains had freshened the country and flushed the creeks, making our work easy, and early in the month of June we reached the Mulberry.Traveling at random, we struck that creek about twenty miles below the trail, and moved up the stream to within a short distance of the old crossing.The presence of a dozen other herds holding along it forced us into a permanent camp a short half-day's ride from the town.The horse-wrangler was pressed into service in making up the first guard that night, and taking Morg Tussler with me, I struck out for Dodge in the falling darkness.On reaching the first divide, we halted long enough to locate the camp-fires along the Mulberry to our rear, while above and below and beyond the river, fires flickered like an Indian encampment.The lights of Dodge were inviting us, and after making a rough estimate of the camps in sight, we rode for town, arriving there between ten and eleven o'clock.The Dodge House was a popular hostelry for trail men and cattle buyers, and on our making inquiry of the night clerk if a Mr.Siringo was stopping there, we were informed that he was, but had retired.I put up a trivial excuse for seeing him, the clerk gave me the number of his room, and Tussler and I were soon closeted with him.The detective was a medium-sized, ordinary man, badly pock-marked, with a soft, musical voice, and apparently as innocent as a boy.In a brief preliminary conversation, he proved to be a Texan, knowing every in and out of cattle, having been bred to the occupation.Our relations to each other were easily established.Reviewing the situation thoroughly, he informed me that he had cultivated the acquaintance of the parties holding the assignment of the Buford award.He had represented to them that he was the fiscal agent of some six herds on the trail that year, three of which' were heavy beeves, and they had agreed to look them over, provided they arrived before the 15th of the month.He further assured me that the parties were mere figureheads of The Supply Company; that they were exceedingly bearish on the market, gloating over the recent depreciation in prices, and perfectly willing to fatten on the wreck and ruin of others.
It was long after midnight when the consultation ended.
Appointing an hour for showing the herd the next day, or that one rather, Tussler and I withdrew, agreeing to be out of town before daybreak.But the blaze of gambling and the blare of dance-halls held us as in a siren's embrace until the lights dimmed with the breaking of dawn.Mounting our horses, we forded the river east of town and avoided the herds, which were just arising from their bed-grounds.On the divide we halted.Within the horizon before us, it is safe to assert that one hundred thousand cattle grazed in lazy contentment, all feeding against the morning breeze.Save for the freshness of early summer, with its background of green and the rarified atmosphere of the elevated plain, the scene before us might be compared to a winter drift of buffalo, ten years previous.Riding down the farther slope, we reached our camp in time for a late breakfast, the fifteen-mile ride having whetted our appetites.Three men were on herd, and sending two more with instructions to water the cattle an hour before noon, Tussler and I sought the shade of the wagon and fell asleep.It was some time after midday when, on sighting the expected conveyance approaching our camp, the cook aroused us.Performing a rather hasty ablution, I met the vehicle, freshened, and with my wits on tap.I nearly dragged the detective from the livery rig, addressing him as "Charley," and we made a rough ado over each other.Several of the other boys came forward and, shaking hands, greeted him with equal familiarity.As two strangers alighted on the opposite side, the detective took me around and they were introduced as Mr.Field and Mr.Radcliff, prospective beef buyers.The boys had stretched a tarpaulin, affording ample shade, and Parent invited every one to dinner.The two strangers were rather testy, but Siringo ate ravenously, repeatedly asking for things which were usually kept in a well-stocked chuck-wagon, meanwhile talking with great familiarity with Tussler and me.
