middle of the afternoon, and Turk had dropped about a
quarter-mile to the rear, while I was riding along beside and
throwing the slicker over him like a blanket. I was letting him
carry it, and he seemed to be enjoying himself, switching his
tail in appreciation, when the matted brush of his tail noosed
itself over one of the riveted buttons on the slicker. The next
switch brought the yellow 'fish' bumping on his heels, and
emitting a blood-curdling bellow, he curved his tail and started
for the herd. Just for a minute it tickled me to see old Turk
getting such a wiggle on him, but the next moment my mirth turned
to seriousness, and I tried to cut him off from the other cattle,
but he beat me, bellowing bloody murder. The slicker was sailing
like a kite, and the rear cattle took fright and began bawling as
if they had struck a fresh scent of blood. The scare flashed
through the herd from rear to point, and hell began popping right
then and there. The air filled with dust and the earth trembled
with the running cattle. Not knowing which way to turn, I stayed
right where I was--in the rear. As the dust lifted, I followed
up, and about a mile ahead picked up my slicker, and shortly
afterward found old Turk, grazing contentedly. With every man in
the saddle, that herd ran seven miles and was only turned by the
Cimarron River. It was nearly dark when I and the roan ox
overtook the cattle. Fortunately none of the swing-men had seen
the cause of the stampede, and I attributed it to fresh blood,
which the outfit believed. My verdant innocence saved my scalp
that time, but years afterward I nearly lost it when I admitted
to my old foreman what had caused the stampede that afternoon.
But I was a trail boss then and had learned my lesson."

The Rebel, who was encamped several miles up the creek, summoned