hat point was dispelled by a
second shot, the flash of which could be distinctly seen across the
river below the ford.

As Dad stood up and answered it with a shrill whistle, every man
reached for his carbine and flattened himself out on the ground. The
whistle was answered, and shortly the splash of quite a cavalcade
could be heard fording the river. Several times they halted, our fire
having died out, and whistles were exchanged between them and Root.
When they came within fifty yards of camp and their outlines could be
distinguished against the sky line in the darkness, they were ordered
to halt, and a dozen carbines clicked an accompaniment to the order.

"Who are you?" demanded Root.

"A detachment from Company M, Texas Rangers," was the reply.

"If you are Rangers, give us a maxim of the service," said Dad.

"_Don't wait for the other man to shoot first_," came the response.

"Ride in, that passes here," was Dad's greeting and welcome.

They were a detachment of fifteen men, and had ridden from the Pecos
on the south, nearly the same distance which we had come. They had
similar orders to ours, but were advised that they would meet our
detachment at this ford. In less than an hour every man was asleep
again, and quiet reigned in the Ranger camp at Comanche Ford on the
Concho.

IX

AROUND THE SPADE WAGON

It was an early spring. The round-up was set for the 10th of June.
The grass was well forward, while the cattle had changed their shaggy
winter coats to glossy suits of summer silk. The brands were as
readable as an alphabet.

It was one day yet before the round-up of the Cherokee Strip. This
strip of leased Indian lands was to be worked in three divisions.
We were on our way to represent the Coldwater Pool in the western
division, on the annual round-up. Our outfit was four men and thirty
horses. We were to represent a range that had twelve thousand cattle
on it, a total of forty-seven brands. We had been in the saddle since
early morning, and as we came out on a narrow divide, we caught our
first glimpse of the Cottonwoods at Antelope Springs, the rendezvous
for this division. The setting sun was scarcely half an hour high, and
the camp was yet five miles distant. We had covered sixty miles that
day, traveling light, our bedding lashed on gentle saddle horses. We
rode up the mesa quite a little distance to avoid some rough broken
country, then turned southward toward the Springs. Before turn