dinner was over, the commissaries were started
down the river, while we turned up it, looking for a chance to swim back
to the cattle. Forrest had secured a fresh mount of horses, and some
distance above the dry wash we again took to the water, landing on the
opposite side between a quarter and half mile below. Little time was
lost in starting the herds, mine in the lead, while the wagons got
away well in advance, accompanied by Forrest's remuda and the isolated
contingent of cattle.

Sponsilier was expecting us, and on the appearance of our wagons, moved
out to a new camp and gave us a clear crossing. A number of the boys
came down to the river with him, and several of them swam it, meeting
the cattle a mile above and piloting us into the ford. They had assured
me that there might be seventy-five yards of swimming water, with a
gradual entrance to the channel and a half-mile of solid footing at
the outcome. The description of the crossing suited me, and putting our
remuda in the lead, we struck the muddy torrent and crossed it without
a halt, the chain of swimming cattle never breaking for a single moment.
Forrest followed in our wake, the one herd piloting the other, and
within an hour after our arrival at the lower ford, the drag-end of the
"Drooping T" herd kicked up their heels on the north bank of the Big
Cheyenne. Meanwhile Sponsilier had been quietly sitting his horse below
the main landing, his hat pulled down over his eye, nursing the humor of
the situation. As Forrest came up out of the water with the rear guard
of his cattle, the opportunity was too good to be overlooked.

"Hello, Quince," said Dave; "how goes it, old sport? Do you keep stout?
I was up at your wagon yesterday to ask you all down to supper. Yes, we
had huckleberry pie and venison galore, but your men told me that you
had quit eating with the wagon. I was pained to hear that you and Tom
have both gone plum hog-wild, drinking out of cowtracks and living on
wild garlic and land-terrapin, just like Injuns. Honest, boys, I hate to
see good men go wrong that way."

CHAPTER XVIII. THE LITTLE MISSOURI

A week later we crossed the Belle Fourche, sometimes called the North
Fork of the Big Cheyenne. Like its twin sister on the south, it was
a mountain river, having numerous affluents putting in from the Black
Hills, which it encircled on the north and west. Between these two
branches of the mother stream were numerous tributaries, establishing
i