t as the best watered country encountered in our long overland cruise.
Besides the splendid watercourses which marked that section, numerous
wagontrails, leading into the hills, were peopled with freighters. Long
ox trains, moving at a snail's pace, crept over hill and plain, the
common carrier between the mines and the outside world. The fascination
of the primal land was there; the buttes stood like sentinels, guarding
a king's domain, while the palisaded cliffs frowned down, as if erected
by the hand Omnipotent to mark the boundary of nations.

Our route, after skirting the Black Hills, followed up the Belle Fourche
a few days, and early in August we crossed over to the Little Missouri
River. The divide between the Belle Fourche and the latter stream was a
narrow one, requiring little time to graze across it, and intercepting
the Little Missouri somewhere in Montana. The course of that river was
almost due north, and crossing and recrossing it frequently, we kept
constantly in touch with it on our last northward tack. The river led
through sections of country now known as the Bad Lands, but we found an
abundance of grass and an easy passage. Sponsilier held the lead all the
way down the river, though I did most of the advance scouting, sometimes
being as much as fifty miles in front of the herds. Near the last of the
month we sighted Sentinel Butte and the smoke of railroad trains, and a
few days later all three of us foremen rode into Little Missouri Station
of the Northern Pacific Railway. Our arrival was expected by one man
at least; for as we approached the straggling village, our employer was
recognized at a distance, waving his hat, and a minute later all three
of us were shaking hands with Don Lovell. Mutual inquiries followed, and
when we reported the cattle fine as silk, having never known a hungry or
thirsty hour after leaving the North Platte, the old man brightened and
led the way to a well-known saloon.

"How did I fare at Omaha?" said old man Don, repeating Forrest's query.
"Well, at first it was a question if I would be hung or shot, but we
came out with colors flying. The United States marshal who attempted to
take possession of the cattle on the North Platte went back on the
same train with us. He was feeling sore over his defeat, but Sutton
cultivated his acquaintance, and in mollifying that official, showed him
how easily failure could be palmed off as a victory. In fact, I think
Mike overcolored t