pe grazing out from the grove. Hold
your mules! Something is raising a dust over to the south. Good! It's
cattle coming to the water."

While he was covering the field with his glass, two of the boys were
threatening with eternal punishment the pack mules, which showed
an energetic determination to lie down and dislodge their packs by
rolling.

"Cut your observations short as possible there, Ramrod, or there will
be re-packing to do. Mula, you hybrid son of your father, don't you
dare to lie down!"

But Ramrod's observations were cut short at sight of the cattle, and
we pushed out for the grove, about seven miles distant. As we
rode this short hour's ride, numerous small bands of antelope were
startled, and in turn stood and gazed at us in bewilderment.

"I'm not tasty," said Sergeant Smoky, "but I would give the preference
this morning to a breakfast of a well-roasted side of ribs of a nice
yearling venison over the salt hoss that the Lone Star State furnishes
this service. Have we no hunters with us?"

"Let me try," begged a little man we called "Cushion-foot." What his
real name was none of us knew. The books, of course, would show some
name, and then you were entitled to a guess. He was as quiet as a
mouse, as reliable as he was quiet, and as noiseless in his movements
as a snake. One of the boys went with him, making quite a detour from
our course, but always remaining in sight. About two miles out from
the grove, we sighted a small band of five or six antelope, who soon
took fright and ran to the nearest elevation. Here they made a stand
about half a mile distant. We signaled to our hunters, who soon
spotted them and dismounted. We could see Cushion sneaking through the
short grass like a coyote, "Conajo" leading the horses, well hidden
between them. We held the antelopes' attention by riding around in a
circle, flagging them. Several times Cushion lay flat, and we thought
he was going to risk a long shot. Then he would crawl forward like a
cat, but finally came to his knee. We saw the little puff, the band
squatted, jumping to one side far enough to show one of their number
down and struggling in the throes of death.

"Good long shot, little man," said the sergeant, "and you may have the
choice of cuts, just so I get a rib."

We saw Conajo mount and ride up on a gallop, but we held our course
for the grove. We were busy making camp when the two rode in with a
fine two-year-old buck across the pommel of C