days later we crossed the main Brazos at a low stage of water.
But from there to Red River was a trial not to be repeated. Wire
fences halted us at every turn. Owners of pastures refused
permission to pass through. Lanes ran in the wrong direction, and
open country for pasturage was scarce. What we dreaded most, lack
of drink for the herd, was the least of our troubles, necessity
requiring its purchase only three or four times. And like a
climax to a week of sore trials, when we were in sight of Red
River a sand and dust storm struck us, blinding both men and herd
for hours. The beeves fared best, for with lowered heads they
turned their backs to the howling gale, while the horsemen caught
it on every side. The cattle drifted at will in an uncontrollable
mass. The air was so filled with sifting sand and eddying dust
that it was impossible to see a mounted man at a distance of
fifty yards. The wind blew a hurricane, making it impossible to
dismount in the face of it. Our horses trembled with fear,
unsteady on their feet. The very sky overhead darkened as if
night was falling. Two thirds of the men threw themselves in the
lead of the beeves, firing six-shooters to check them, which
could not even be heard by the ones on the flank and in the rear.
Once the herd drifted against a wire fence, leveled it down and
moved on, sullen but irresistible. Towards evening the storm
abated, and half the outfit was sent out in search of the wagon,
which was finally found about dark some four miles distant.

That night Owen Ubery, as he bathed his bloodshot eyes in a pail
of water, said to the rest of us: "Fellows, if ever I have a boy,
and tell him how his pa suffered this afternoon, and he don't
cry, I'll cut a switch and whip him until he does."