the right was an eroded hill with steep sides, its flat
top covered with a thick mass of brush, berry bushes and scrub timber,
and on its right was a swamp, filled with pools and rank with
vegetation. The dry wash marking the end of the great buffalo trail was
dry no longer, but poured out a roiled, yellow-brown stream into the
dirty waters of the Cimarron.

Rounding the hill they stopped and exchanged grins, for in a little
horseshoe hollow two horses, with pack saddles on their backs, stopped
their grazing, pulled to the end of their picket-ropes, and looked
inquiringly at the invaders.

"Thar's jest no understandin' th' ways o' Providence," chuckled Hank as
he dismounted. "Hyar we been a-wishin' an' a-wishin' fer a couple o'
hosses to take th' place o' these cold-'lasses mules, an' danged if hyar
they ain't, saddles an' all, right under our noses."

While he went along the back trail on foot to a point from where he
could see the river, his companions became busy. They pooled their
supplies and packed them securely on the Providence-provided horses, put
the rest on their own animals, picketed the mules and removed the bell
from the old mare, tossing it aside so its warning tinkle would be
stilled. Signalling Hank, in a few minutes they were on their way again
along the faint and in many places totally effaced trail leading over
the wastes to the distant trading post on the Arkansas. Coming to a
rainwater rivulet Hank sent them westward down its middle while he rode
splashingly upstream. Soon coming to a tangle of brush he forced his
horse to take a few steps around it on the bank, returned to the stream
and then, holding squarely to its middle, picked his way through the
tangle and rode back to rejoin his friends, having left behind him a
sign of his upward passing. In case Providence went to sleep and took no
more interest in his affairs, he had the satisfaction of knowing that he
had done what he could to hide their trail.

He found his friends waiting for him and he shook his head as he joined
them. "Danged if I like this hyar hidin'," he growled, coming back to
his pet grievance. "I most gen'rally 'd ruther do it myself."

"But it ain't a question o' fighting," retorted Tom. "We got ter hide
our trail from now on in case some greaser gits away, like they did from
them Texans back nigh th' Crossin', an' takes th' news in ter th'
settlements that we didn't go ter Bent's after we left th' wagon road.
Ye'll git