Lester, same for yu. An’, Smith, I reckon I’d feel kinda safe with yu oot there.”

“Suits me fine. I never sleep, anyhow,” replied the outlaw, rising with alacrity.

“Deuce, I’ll wake yu at midnight or thereaboots. Yu pick yore two guards. …An’ say, boss, I ‘most forgot. Who’s gonna wrangle the hawses. Thet’s a big drove we got.”

“Shore, but they’re not wild. Herd them on good grass with the cattle.”

“All right, we’ll round them up. But we ought to have some one regular on thet job. …Wal, so long. It’s a lucky start.”

Brite agreed with this last statement of his foreman, despite the strange presentiment that came vaguely at odd moments. The Brite herd of forty-five hundred head, trail-branded with three brands before they had been bought, had a good start on the herds behind, and full three weeks after the last one that had gone north. Grass and water should be abundant, except in spots. Cattle could go days without grass, if they had plenty of water. It had been rather a backward spring, retarding the buffalo on their annual migration north. Brite concluded they would run into buffalo somewhere north of the Red River.

“Moze, couldya use some fresh meat?” called Deuce Ackerman.

“Ise got a whole quarter of beef,” replied Moze. “An’ yo knows, Mars Ackerman, Ise a economical cook.”

“I saw a bunch of deer. Some venison shore would go good. Come on, Ben. We’ve a half-hour more of daylight yet.”

The two drivers secured rifles and disappeared in the grove. Hallett impressively acquainted Little with the fact that he was going to take a bath. That worthy expressed amaze and consternation. “My Gawd! Roy, what ails yu? We’ll be fordin’ rivers an’ creeks every day pronto. Ain’t thet so, boss?”

“It shore is, an’ if they’re high an’ cold yu’ll get all the water yu want for ten years,” returned Brite.

“I’m gonna, anyway,” said Hallett.

“Roy, I’ll go if yu’ll pull off my boots. They ain’t been off for a week.”

“Shore. Come on.”

Soon the camp was deserted save for the whistling Moze and Brite, who took pains about unrolling his canvas and spreading his blanket. A good bed was what a trail driver yearned for and seldom got. At least, mostly he did not get to lie in it long at a stretch. That done, Brite filled his pipe for a smoke. The afterglow burned in the west and against that gold a solitary rider on a black horse stood silhouetted dark and wild.