"Tell us about it," I suggested, in a matter of fact,
round-the-campfire voice. Had the silent plainsman ever told a
complete and full story of his adventures? I doubted it. He was
not the man to eulogize himself.

A short silence ensued. The cabin was snug and warm; the ruddy
embers glowed; one of Jim's pots steamed musically and
fragrantly. The hounds lay curled in the cozy chimney corner.

Jones began to talk again, simply and unaffectedly, of his famous
exploit; and as he went on so modestly, passing lightly over
features we recognized as wonderful, I allowed the fire of my
imagination to fuse for myself all the toil, patience, endurance,
skill, herculean strength and marvelous courage and unfathomable
passion which he slighted in his narrative.



CHAPTER 3. THE LAST HERD

Over gray No-Man's-Land stole down the shadows of night. The
undulating prairie shaded dark to the western horizon, rimmed
with a fading streak of light. Tall figures, silhouetted sharply
against the last golden glow of sunset, marked the rounded crest
of a grassy knoll.

"Wild hunter!" cried a voice in sullen rage, "buffalo or no, we
halt here. Did Adams and I hire to cross the Staked Plains? Two
weeks in No-Man's-Land, and now we're facing the sand! We've one
keg of water, yet you want to keep on. Why, man, you're crazy!