While waiting for Lahoma's letter, Wilfred Compton spent his days
in ceaseless activity, his evenings in dreamy musings. Over on the
North Fork of Red River--which was still regarded as Red River
proper, and therefore the dividing line between Texas and Indian
Territory--he renewed his acquaintance with the boys of Old Man
Walker's ranch. Henry Woodson, the cow-puncher, still known as
Mizzoo was one of the old gang who greeted Wilfred with extravagant
joy which shaded away to easy and picturesque melancholy in
lamenting the passing of the good old days.

"These is the days of fences," complained Mizzoo, as Wilfred, in
answer to his invitation, rode forth with him to view the changes.
"Time was, our cattle was bounded on the south by nothing but the
south wind, and on the north by nothing but the north wind; hut
these unmitigated settlers has spiled the cattle business. I'm
looking for the old man to sell out and quit. Why, look at all the
little towns that has sprung up so confusing and handy that you
don't know which to choose to liquor up. They comes like a thief
in the night, and in the morning they're equipped to rob you. I
can't keep no change by me--I've asked the old man to hold back my
wages till the end of the year. But I'm calculating to make
something out of these very misfortunes. You know I always was sort
of thrifty--yes, as they GOT to be a settled county round us, it'll
needs call for a sheriff, and if all signs don't fail, I'll get the
job this week. Then there'll be no more riding of the line for old
Mizzoo."

Wilfred rode with him to Mangum, and other villages, with names and
without, and he tingled to the spirit of the bounding West. There
might be only a few dugouts, some dingy tents and a building or so