near together that you will have to represent me at one of them.
The Buford cattle, being the last by a few weeks, we will both go
up there and see it over with. There are about half a dozen trail
foremen anxious for the two other herds, and while they are good
men, I don't know of any good reason for not pushing my own boys
forward. I have already decided to give Dave Sponsilier and
Quince Forrest two of the Buford herds, and I reckon, Tom, the
last one will fall to you."

The darkness in which we were standing shielded my egotism from
public view. But I am conscious that I threw out my brisket
several inches and stood straight on my bow-legs as I thanked old
man Don for the foremanship of his sixth herd. Flood was amused,
and told me afterward that my language was extravagant. There is
an old superstition that if a man ever drinks out of the Rio
Grande, it matters not where he roams afterward, he is certain to
come back to her banks again. I had watered my horse in the
Yellowstone in '82, and ever afterward felt an itching to see her
again. And here the opportunity opened before me, not as a common
cow-hand, but as a trail boss and one of three in filling a five
million pound government beef contract! But it was dark and I was
afoot, and if I was a trifle "chesty," there had suddenly come
new colorings to my narrow world.

On the arrival of the train, several other westward-bound cowmen
boarded it. We all took seats in the smoker, it being but a two
hours' run to our destination. Flood and I were sitting well
forward in the car, the former almost as elated over my good
fortune as myself. "Well, won't old Quince be all puffed up,"
said Jim to me, "when the old man tells him he's to have a herd.