paid by my employer a very high compliment. My first trip over
the trail, as far north as Dodge, was in '78. The herd sold next
day after reaching there, and as I had an old uncle and aunt
living in middle Kansas, I concluded to run down and pay them a
short visit. So I threw away all my trail togs--well, they were
worn out, anyway--and bought me a new outfit complete. Yes, I
even bought button shoes. After visiting a couple of weeks with
my folks, I drifted back to Dodge in the hope of getting in with
some herd bound farther north--I was perfectly useless on a farm.
On my return to Dodge, the only thing about me that indicated a
cow-hand was my Texas saddle and outfit, but in toggery, in my
visiting harness, I looked like a rank tenderfoot.

"Well, boys, the first day I struck town I met a through man
looking for hands. His herd had just come in over the Chisholm
Trail, crossing to the western somewhere above. He was disgusted
with his outfit, and was discharging men right and left and
hiring new ones to take their places. I apologized for my
appearance, showed him my outfit, and got a job cow-punching with
this through man. He expected to hold on sale a week or two, when
if unsold he would drift north to the Platte. The first week that
I worked, a wet stormy night struck us, and before ten o'clock we
lost every hoof of cattle. I was riding wild after little squads
of cattle here and there, guided by flashes of lightning, when
the storm finally broke. Well, there it was midnight, and I
didn't have a HOOF OF CATTLE to hold and no one to help me if I
had. The truth is, I was lost. Common horse-sense told me that;
but where the outfit or wagon was was anybody's guess. The horses
in my mount were as good as worthless; worn out, and if you gave
one free rein he lacked the energy to carry you back to camp. I