is to yourself, for it may prove a nightmare.
But if it should prove true, then we must stand together. Now, that's
all; mum's the word until we meet. Drop me a line if you get a chance,
and don't let my troubles worry you."

While overtaking the herd, I mused over my employer's last words. But
my brain was too muddy even to attempt to solve the riddle. The most
plausible theory that I could advance was that some friendly cowmen
were playing a joke on him, and that the old man had taken things too
seriously. Within a week the matter was entirely forgotten, crowded out
of mind by the demands of the hour. The next night, on the Clear Fork
of the Brazos, a stranger, attracted by our camp-fire, rode up to the
wagon. Returning from the herd shortly after his arrival, I recognized
in our guest John Blocker, a prominent drover. He informed us that he
and his associates had fifty-two thousand cattle on the trail, and that
he was just returning from overtaking two of their five lead herds.
Knowing that he was a well-posted cowman on routes and sustenance,
having grown up on the trail, I gave him the best our camp afforded,
and in return I received valuable information in regard to the country
between our present location and Doan's Crossing. He reported the
country for a hundred miles south of Red River as having had a dry,
backward spring, scanty of grass, and with long dry drives; and further,
that in many instances water for the herds would have to be bought from
those in control.

The outlook was not to my liking. The next morning when I inquired of
our guest what he would advise me to do, his answer clearly covered the
ground. "Well, I'm not advising any one," said he, "but you can draw
your own conclusions. The two herds of mine, which I overtook, have
orders to turn northeast and cross into the Nations at Red River
Station. My other cattle, still below, will all be routed by way of
Fort Griffin. Once across Red River, you will have the Chisholm Trail,
running through civilized tribes, and free from all annoyance of blanket
Indians. South of the river the grass is bound to be better than on the
western route, and if we have to buy water, we'll have the advantage of
competition."

With this summary of the situation, a decision was easily reached. The
Chisholm Trail was good enough for me. Following up the north side
of the Clear Fork, we passed about twenty miles to the west of Fort
Griffin. Constantly bearing east by no