there must have been a dozen yoke of work-steers in our herd that
year, and they were more trouble to me than all the balance of
the cattle, for they were slothful and sinfully lazy. My
vocabulary of profanity was worn to a frazzle before we were out
a week, and those oxen didn't pay any more attention to a rope or
myself than to the buzzing of a gnat.

"There was one big roan ox, called Turk, which we worked to the
wagon occasionally, but in crossing the Arbuckle Mountains in the
Indian Territory, he got tender-footed. Another yoke was
substituted, and in a few days Turk was on his feet again. But he
was a cunning rascal and had learned to soldier, and while his
feet were sore, I favored him with sandy trails and gave him his
own time. In fact, most of my duties were driving that one ox,
while the other boys handled the herd. When his feet got well--I
had toadied and babied him so--he was plum ruined. I begged the
foreman to put him back in the chuck team, but the cook kicked on
account of his well-known laziness, so Turk and I continued to
adorn the rear of the column. I reckon the foreman thought it
better to have Turk and me late than no dinner. I tried a hundred
different schemes to instill ambition and self-respect into that
ox, but he was an old dog and contented with his evil ways.

"Several weeks passed, and Turk and I became a standing joke with
the outfit. One morning I made the discovery that he was afraid
of a slicker. For just about a full half day, I had the best of
him, and several times he was out of sight in the main body of
the herd. But he always dropped to the rear, and finally the
slicker lost its charm to move him. In fact he rather enjoyed
having me fan him with it--it seemed to cool him. It was the