The messenger was a picture of despair. He proved to be the owner
of the abandoned cattle, and had come to us with an appeal for
help. According to his story, he was a Northern cowman and had
purchased the cattle a few days before in Dodge. He had bought
the outfit complete, with the understanding that the through help
would continue in his service until his range in Wyoming was
reached. But it was a Mexican outfit, foreman and all, and during
the storm of the night before, one of the men had been killed by
lightning. The accident must have occurred near dawn, as the man
was not missed until daybreak, and like ours, his cattle had
drifted with the storm. Some time was lost in finding the body,
and to add to the panic that had already stricken the outfit, the
shirt of the unfortunate vaquero was burnt from the corpse. The
horse had escaped scathless, though his rider met death, while
the housings were stripped from the saddle so that it fell from
the animal. The Mexican foreman and vaqueros had thrown their
hands in the air; steeped in superstition, they considered the
loss of their comrade a bad omen, and refused to go farther. The
herd was as good as abandoned unless we could lend a hand.

The appeal was not in vain. Detailing four of my men, and leaving
Jack Splann as segundo in charge of our cattle, I galloped away
with the stranger. As we rode the short distance between the two
herds and I mentally reviewed the situation, I could not help but
think it was fortunate for the alien outfit that their employer
was a Northern cowman instead of a Texan. Had the present owner
been of the latter school, there would have been more than one
dead Mexican before a valuable herd would have been abandoned
over an unavoidable accident. I kept my thoughts to myself,
however, for the man had troubles enough, and on reaching his