second consideration to their stomachs. But long before the herd
reached this menace, Morg Tussler and myself, scouting two full
days in advance, located a safe route to the westward. Had we
turned to the other hand, we should have been forced into the
main trail below Fredericksburg, and we preferred the sea-room of
the boundless plain. From every indication and report, this
promised to be the banner year in the exodus of cattle from the
South to the then new Northwest. This latter section was
affording the long-looked-for outlet, by absorbing the offerings
of cattle which came up from Texas over the trail, and marking an
epoch barely covering a single decade.

Turning on a western angle, a week's drive brought us out on a
high tableland. Veering again to the north, we snailed along
through a delightful country, rich in flora and the freshness of
the season. From every possible elevation, we scanned the west in
the hope of sighting some of the herd which had followed up the
main Frio, but in vain. Sweeping northward at a leisurely gait,
the third week out we sighted the Blue Mountains, the first
familiar landmark on our course. As the main western trail
skirted its base on the eastward, our position was easily
established.

So far the cattle were well behaved, not a run, and only a single
incident occurring worth mention. About half an hour before dawn
one morning, the cook aroused the camp with the report that the
herd was missing. The beeves had been bedded within two hundred
yards of the wagon, and the last watch usually hailed the
rekindling of the cook's fire as the first harbinger of day. But
on this occasion the absence of the usual salutations from the