nearly five hundred miles on its way. For the past week we had been
traveling over that immense tableland which skirts the arid portion of
western Texas. A few days before, while passing the blue mountains
which stand as a southern sentinel in the chain marking the headwaters
of the Concho River, we had our first glimpse of the hills. In its
almost primitive condition, the country was generous, supplying every
want for sustenance of horses and cattle. The grass at this stage of
the season was well matured, the herd taking on flesh in a very
gratifying manner, and, while we had crossed some rocky country, lame
and sore-footed cattle had as yet caused us no serious trouble.

One morning when within one day's drive of the Colorado River, as our
herd was leaving the bed ground, the last guard encountered a bunch of
cattle drifting back down the trail. There were nearly fifty head of
the stragglers; and as one of our men on guard turned them to throw
them away from our herd, the road brand caught his eye, and he
recognized the strays as belonging to the Ellison herd which had
passed us at the Indian Lakes some ten days before. Flood's attention
once drawn to the brand, he ordered them thrown into our herd. It was
evident that some trouble had occurred with the Ellison cattle,
possibly a stampede; and it was but a neighborly act to lend any
assistance in our power. As soon as the outfit could breakfast, mount,
and take the herd, Flood sent Priest and me to scout the country to
the westward of the trail, while Bob Blades and Ash Borrowstone
started on a similar errand to the eastward, with orders to throw in
any drifting cattle in the Ellison road brand. Within an hour after
starting, the herd encountered several straggling bands, and as Priest
and I were on the point of returning to the herd, we almost overrode a
bunch of eighty odd head lying down in some broken country. They were
gaunt and tired, and The Rebel at once pronounced their stiffened