the river. Several times they halted, our fire having died out, and whistles were exchanged between them and Root. When they came within fifty yards of camp and their outlines could be distinguished against the sky line in the darkness, they were ordered to halt, and a dozen carbines clicked an accompaniment to the order.
"Who are you?" demanded Root.
"A detachment from Company M, Texas Rangers," was the reply.
"If you are Rangers, give us a maxim of the service," said Dad.
"Don't wait for the other man to shoot first," came the response.
"Ride in, that passes here," was Dad's greeting and welcome.
They were a detachment of fifteen men, and had ridden from the Pecos on the south, nearly the same distance which we had come. They had similar orders to ours, but were advised that they would meet our detachment at this ford. In less than an hour every man was asleep again, and quiet reigned in the Ranger camp at Comanche Ford on the Concho.
Around The Spade Wagon
It was an early spring. The round-up was set for the 10th of June. The grass was well forward, while the cattle had changed their shaggy winter coats to glossy suits of summer silk. The brands were as readable as an alphabet.
It was one day yet before the round-up of the Cherokee Strip. This strip of leased Indian lands was to be worked in three divisions. We were on our way to represent the Coldwater Pool in the western division, on the annual round-up. Our outfit was four men and thirty horses. We were to represent a range that had twelve thousand cattle on it, a total of forty-seven brands. We had been in the saddle since early morning, and as we came out on a narrow divide, we caught our first glimpse of the Cottonwoods at Antelope Springs, the rendezvous for this division. The setting sun was scarcely half an hour high, and the camp was yet five miles distant. We had covered sixty miles that day, traveling light, our bedding lashed on gentle saddle horses. We rode up the mesa quite a little distance to avoid some rough broken country, then turned southward toward the Springs. Before turning off, we could see with the naked eye signs of life at the meeting-point. The wagon sheets of half a dozen chuck-wagons shone white in the dim distance, while small bands of saddle horses could be distinctly seen grazing about.
When we halted at noon that day to change our mounts, we sighted to the northward some seven miles distant an outfit similar to our own. We were on the lookout for this cavalcade; they were supposed to be the "Spade" outfit, on their way to attend the round-up in the middle division, where our pasture lay. This year, as in years past, we had exchanged the courtesies of the range with them. Their men on our division were made welcome at our wagon, and we on theirs were extended the same courtesy. For this reason we had hoped to meet them and exchange the chronicle of the day, concerning the condition of cattle on their range, the winter drift, and who would be captain this year on the western division, but had traveled the entire day without meeting a man.
Night had almost set in when we reached the camp, and to our satisfaction and delight found the Spade wagon already there, though their men and horses would not arrive until the next day. To hungry men like ourselves, the welcome of their cook was hospitality in the fullest sense of the word. We stretched ropes from the wagon wheels, and in a few moments' time were busy hobbling our mounts. Darkness had settled over the camp as we were at this work, while an occasional horseman rode by with the common inquiry, "Whose outfit is this?" and the cook, with one end of the rope in his hand, would feel the host in him sufficiently to reply in tones supercilious, "The Coldwater Pool men are with us this year."
Our arrival was heralded through the camp with the same rapidity with which gossip circulates, equally in a tenement alley or the upper crust of society. The cook had informed us that we had been inquired for by some Panhandle man; so before we had finished hobbling, a stranger sang out across the ropes in the darkness, "Is Billy Edwards here?" Receiving an affirmative answer from among the horses' feet, he added, "Come out, then, and shake hands with a friend."
Edwards arose from his work, and looking across the backs of the circle of horses about him, at the undistinguishable figure at the rope, replied, "Whoever you are, I reckon the acquaintance will hold good until I get these horses hobbled."
"Who is it?" inquired "Mouse" from over near the hind wheel of the wagon, where he was applying the hemp to the horses' ankles.
"I don't know," said Billy, as he knelt among the horses and resumed his work, — "some geranium out there wants me to come out and shake hands, pow-wow, and make some medicine with him; that's all. Say, we'll leave Chino for picket, and that Chihuahua cutting horse of Coon's, you have to put a rope on when you come to him. He's too touchy to sabe hobbles if you don't."
When we had finished hobbling, and the horses were turned loose, the stranger proved to be "Babe" Bradshaw, an old chum of Edwards's. The Spade cook added an earthly laurel to his temporal crown with the supper to which he shortly invited us. Bradshaw had eaten with the general wagon, but he sat around while we ate. There was little conversation during the supper, for our appetites were such and the spread so inviting that it simply absorbed us.
"Don't bother me," said Edwards to his old chum, in reply to some inquiry. "Can't you see that I'm occupied at present?"
We did justice to the supper, having had no dinner that day. The cook even urged, with an earnestness worthy of a motherly landlady, several dishes, but his browned potatoes and roast beef claimed our attention. "Well, what are you doing in this country anyhow?" inquired Edwards of Bradshaw, when the inner man had been thoroughly satisfied.
"Well, sir, I have a document in my pocket, with sealing wax but no ribbons on it, which says that I am the duly authorized representative of the Panhandle Cattle Association. I also have a book in my pocket showing every brand and the names of its owners, and there is a whole raft of them. I may go to St. Louis to act as inspector for my people when the round-up ends."
"You're just as windy as ever, Babe," said Billy. "Strange I didn't recognize you when you first spoke. You're getting natural now, though. I suppose you're borrowing horses, like all these special inspectors do. It's all right with me, but good men must be scarce in your section or you've improved rapidly since you left us. By the way, there is a man or four lying around here that also represents about forty-seven brands. Possibly you'd better not cut any of their cattle or you might get them cut back on you."
"Do you remember," said Babe, "when I dissolved with the 'Ohio' outfit and bought in with the 'LX' people?"
"When you what?" repeated Edwards.
"Well, then, when I was discharged by the 'Ohio's' and got a job ploughing fire-guards with the 'LX's.' Is that plain enough for your conception? I learned a lesson then that has served me since to good advantage. Don't hesitate to ask for the best job on the works, for if you don't you'll see some one get it that isn't as well qualified to fill it as you are. So if you happen to be in St. Louis, call around and see me at the Panhandle headquarters. Don't send in any card by a nigger; walk right in. I might give you some other pointers, but you couldn't appreciate them. You'll more than likely be driving a chuck-wagon in a few years."
These old cronies from boyhood sparred along in give-and-take repartee for some time, finally drifting back to boyhood days, while the harshness that pervaded their conversation before became mild and genial.
"Have you ever been back in old San Saba since we left?" inquired
