last tack for Dodge. The rains had freshened the country and
flushed the creeks, making our work easy, and early in the month
of June we reached the Mulberry. Traveling at random, we struck
that creek about twenty miles below the trail, and moved up the
stream to within a short distance of the old crossing. The
presence of a dozen other herds holding along it forced us into a
permanent camp a short half-day's ride from the town. The
horse-wrangler was pressed into service in making up the first
guard that night, and taking Morg Tussler with me, I struck out
for Dodge in the falling darkness. On reaching the first divide,
we halted long enough to locate the camp-fires along the Mulberry
to our rear, while above and below and beyond the river, fires
flickered like an Indian encampment. The lights of Dodge were
inviting us, and after making a rough estimate of the camps in
sight, we rode for town, arriving there between ten and eleven
o'clock. The Dodge House was a popular hostelry for trail men and
cattle buyers, and on our making inquiry of the night clerk if a
Mr. Siringo was stopping there, we were informed that he was, but
had retired. I put up a trivial excuse for seeing him, the clerk
gave me the number of his room, and Tussler and I were soon
closeted with him. The detective was a medium-sized, ordinary
man, badly pock-marked, with a soft, musical voice, and
apparently as innocent as a boy. In a brief preliminary
conversation, he proved to be a Texan, knowing every in and out
of cattle, having been bred to the occupation. Our relations to
each other were easily established. Reviewing the situation
thoroughly, he informed me that he had cultivated the
acquaintance of the parties holding the assignment of the Buford
award. He had represented to them that he was the fiscal agent of
some six herds on the trail that year, three of which were heavy