we got well out of sight of the house--well, I've seen mule colts
play and kid goats cut up their antics; I've seen children that
was frolicsome; but for a man with gray hair on his head, old
Bibleback Hunt that day was the happiest mortal I ever saw. He
talked to the horses; he sang songs; he played Injun; and that
Christmas was a merry one, for the debt was paid and our little
widow had beef to throw to the dogs. I never saw her again, but
wherever she is to-night, if my prayer counts, may God bless
her!"

Early in the evening I had warned my boys that we would start on
our return at ten o'clock. The hour was nearly at hand, and in
reply to my inquiry if our portion of the beef had been secured,
Jack Splann said that he had cut off half a loin, a side of ribs,
and enough steak for breakfast. Splann and I tied the beef to our
cantle-strings, and when we returned to the group, Sponsilier was
telling of the stampede of his herd in the Panhandle about a
month before. "But that run wasn't a circumstance to one in which
I figured once, and in broad daylight," concluded Dave. It
required no encouragement to get the story; all we had to do was
to give him time to collect his thoughts.

"Yes, it was in the summer of '73," he finally continued. "It was
my first trip over the trail, and I naturally fell into position
at the drag end of the herd. I was a green boy of about eighteen
at the time, having never before been fifty miles from the ranch
where I was born. The herd belonged to Major Hood, and our
destination was Ellsworth, Kansas. In those days they generally
worked oxen to the chuck-wagons, as they were ready sale in the
upper country, and in good demand for breaking prairie. I reckon