It must have been after midnight when I was awakened by the braying of
mules and the rattle of the wagon, to hear the voices of Forrest and
McCann, mingled with the rattle of chains as they unharnessed,
condemning to eternal perdition the broken country on the north side
of the Brazos, between Round Timber ferry and the mouth of Monday
Creek.

"I think that when the Almighty made this country on the north side of
the Brazos," said McCann the next morning at breakfast, "the Creator
must have grown careless or else made it out of odds and ends. There's
just a hundred and one of these dry arroyos that you can't see until
you are right onto them. They wouldn't bother a man on horseback, but
with a loaded wagon it's different. And I'll promise you all right now
that if Forrest hadn't come out and piloted me in, you might have
tightened up your belts for breakfast and drank out of cow tracks and
smoked cigarettes for nourishment. Well, it'll do you good; this high
living was liable to spoil some of you, but I notice that you are all
on your feed this morning. The black strap? Honeyman, get that
molasses jug out of the wagon--it sits right in front of the chuck
box. It does me good to see this outfit's tastes once more going back
to the good old staples of life."

We made our usual early start, keeping well out from the river on a
course almost due northward. The next river on our way was the
Wichita, still several days' drive from the mouth of Monday Creek.
Flood's intention was to parallel the old trail until near the river,
when, if its stage of water was not fordable, we would again seek a
lower crossing in the hope of avoiding any waterbound herds on that
watercourse. The second day out from the Brazos it rained heavily