lood were a good team of cowmen. The former, as a youth,
had carried a musket in the ranks of the Union army, and at the end of
that struggle, cast his fortune with Texas, where others had seen
nothing but the desolation of war, Lovell saw opportunities of
business, and had yearly forged ahead as a drover and beef contractor.
He was well calculated to manage the cattle business, but was
irritable and inclined to borrow trouble, therefore unqualified
personally to oversee the actual management of a cow herd. In repose,
Don Lovell was slow, almost dull, but in an emergency was
astonishingly quick-witted and alert. He never insisted on temperance
among his men, and though usually of a placid temperament, when out of
tobacco--Lord!

Jim Flood, on the other hand, was in a hundred respects the antithesis
of his employer. Born to the soil of Texas, he knew nothing but
cattle, but he knew them thoroughly. Yet in their calling, the pair
were a harmonious unit. He never crossed a bridge till he reached it,
was indulgent with his men, and would overlook any fault, so long as
they rendered faithful service. Priest told me this incident: Flood
had hired a man at Red River the year before, when a self-appointed
guardian present called Flood to one side and said,--"Don't you know
that that man you've just hired is the worst drunkard in this
country?"

"No, I didn't know it," replied Flood, "but I'm glad to hear he is. I
don't want to ruin an innocent man, and a trail outfit is not supposed
to have any morals. Just so the herd don't count out shy on the day of
delivery, I don't mind how many drinks the outfit takes."

The next morning after going into camp, the first thing was the
allotment of our mounts for the trip. Flood had the first pick, and
cut twelve bays and browns. His preference for solid colors, though
they were not the largest in the _remuda_, showed his practical sense
of horses. When it came the boys' turn to cut, we were only allowed to
cut one at a time by turns, even casting lots for first choice. We had
ridden the horses enough to have a fair idea as to their merits, and
every lad was his own judge. There were, as it happened, only three
pinto horses in the entire saddle stock, and these three were the last
left of the entire bunch. Now a little boy or girl, and many an older
person, thinks that a spotted horse is the real thing, but practical
cattle men know that this freak of color in range-bred horses is the
r