the river a dozen times, and then after the herd was safely over, swam
back to get our clothing. It was a thrilling experience to us younger
lads of the outfit, and rather attractive; but the elder and more
experienced men always dreaded swimming rivers. Their reasons were
made clear enough when, a fortnight later, we crossed Red River, where
a newly made grave was pointed out to us, amongst others of men who
had lost their lives while swimming cattle.

Once the bulk of the cattle were safely over, with no danger of
congestion on the farther bank, they were allowed to loiter along
under the cutbank and drink to their hearts' content. Quite a number
strayed above the passageway, and in order to rout them out, Bob
Blades, Moss Strayhorn, and I rode out through the outlet and up the
river, where we found some of them in a passageway down a dry arroyo.
The steers had found a soft, damp place in the bank, and were so busy
horning the waxy, red mud, that they hardly noticed our approach until
we were within a rod of them. We halted our horses and watched their
antics. The kneeling cattle were cutting the bank viciously with their
horns and matting their heads with the red mud, but on discovering our
presence, they curved their tails and stampeded out as playfully as
young lambs on a hillside.

"Can you sabe where the fun comes in to a steer, to get down on his
knees in the mud and dirt, and horn the bank and muss up his curls and
enjoy it like that?" inquired Strayhorn of Blades and me.

"Because it's healthy and funny besides," replied Bob, giving me a
cautious wink. "Did you never hear of people taking mud baths? You've
seen dogs eat grass, haven't you? Well, it's something on the same
order. Now, if I was a student of the nature of animals, like you are,