and
I'll thrash around on it awhile."

Several trail stories of more or less interest were told, when Runt
Pickett, in order to avoid the smoke, came over and sat down between
Burl Van Vedder and me. He had had an experience, and instantly opened
on us at short range. "Speaking of stampedes," said Runt, "reminds me
of a run I was in, and over which I was paid by my employer a very high
compliment. My first trip over the trail, as far north as Dodge, was in
'78. The herd sold next day after reaching there, and as I had an old
uncle and aunt living in middle Kansas, I concluded to run down and pay
them a short visit. So I threw away all my trail togs--well, they were
worn out, anyway--and bought me a new outfit complete. Yes, I even
bought button shoes. After visiting a couple of weeks with my folks,
I drifted back to Dodge in the hope of getting in with some herd bound
farther north--I was perfectly useless on a farm. On my return to Dodge,
the only thing about me that indicated a cow-hand was my Texas saddle
and outfit, but in toggery, in my visiting harness, I looked like a rank
tenderfoot.

"Well, boys, the first day I struck town I met a through man looking for
hands. His herd had just come in over the Chisholm Trail, crossing to
the western somewhere above. He was disgusted with his outfit, and was
discharging men right and left and hiring new ones to take their places.
I apologized for my appearance, showed him my outfit, and got a job
cow-punching with this through man. He expected to hold on sale a week
or two, when if unsold he would drift north to the Platte. The first
week that I worked, a wet stormy night struck us, and before ten o'clock
we lost every hoof of cattle. I was riding wild after little squads of
cattle here and there, guided by flashes of lightning, when the storm
finally broke. Well, there it was midnight, and I didn't have a HOOF OF
CATTLE to hold and no one to help me if I had. The truth is, I was lost.
Common horse-sense told me that; but where the outfit or wagon was was
anybody's guess. The horses in my mount were as good as worthless; worn
out, and if you gave one free rein he lacked the energy to carry you
back to camp. I ploughed around in the darkness for over an hour, but
finally came to a sudden stop on the banks of the muddy Arkansaw. Right
there I held a council of war with myself, the decision of which was
that it was at least five miles to the wagon.

"After I'd prowled around