CHAPTER IX. AT SHERIFF'S CREEK

The sun had nearly set when we galloped into Bob Quirk's camp.
Halting only long enough to advise my brother of the escape of
Tolleston and his joining the common enemy, I asked him to throw
any pursuit off our trail, as I proposed breaking camp that
evening. Seay and myself put behind us the few miles between the
two wagons, and dashed up to mine just as the outfit were
corralling the remuda for night-horses. Orders rang out, and
instead of catching our regular guard mounts, the boys picked the
best horses in their strings. The cattle were then nearly a mile
north of camp, coming in slowly towards the bed-ground, but a
half-dozen of us rushed away to relieve the men on herd and turn
the beeves back. The work-mules were harnessed in, and as soon as
the relieved herders secured mounts, our camp of the past few
days was abandoned. The twilight of evening was upon us, and to
the rattling of the heavily loaded wagon and the shouting of the
wrangler in our rear were added the old herd songs. The cattle,
without trail or trace to follow, and fit ransom for a dozen
kings in pagan ages, moved north as if imbued with the spirit of
the occasion.

A fair moon favored us. The night was an ideal one for work, and
about twelve o'clock we bedded down the herd and waited for dawn.
As we expected to move again with the first sign of day, no one
cared to sleep; our nerves were under a high tension with
expectation of what the coming day might bring forth. Our
location was an unknown quantity. All agreed that we were fully
ten miles north of the Saw Log, and, with the best reasoning at