us. As they were three or four
miles beyond the trail, we could easily see that they were grazing
along like ourselves, and Forrest was appealed to to know if it was
the Millet herd. He said not, and pointed out to the northeast about
the location of the Millet cattle, probably five miles in advance of
the stranger on our right. When we overtook our wagon at noon, McCann,
who had never left the trail, reported having seen the herd. They
looked to him like heavy beef cattle, and had two yoke of oxen to
their chuck wagon, which served further to proclaim them as strangers.

Neither Priest nor Flood returned during the noon hour, and when the
herd refused to lie down and rest longer, we grazed them forward till
the fringe of timber which grew along the stream loomed up not a mile
distant in our front. From the course we were traveling, we would
strike the creek several miles above the regular crossing, and as
Forrest reported that Millet was holding below the old crossing on a
small rivulet, all we could do was to hold our wagon in the rear, and
await the return of our men out on scout for a ford. Priest was the
first to return, with word that he had ridden the creek out for
twenty-five miles and had found no crossing that would be safe for a
mud turtle. On hearing this, we left two men with the herd, and the
rest of the outfit took the wagon, went on to Boggy, and made camp. It
was a deceptive-looking stream, not over fifty or sixty feet wide. In
places the current barely moved, shallowing and deepening, from a few
inches in places to several feet in others, with an occasional pool
that would swim a horse. We probed it with poles until we were
satisfied that we were up against a proposition different from
anything we had yet encountered. While we were discussing the
situation, a stranger rode up on a fine roan horse, and inquired for
our foreman. Forrest informed him that our boss was away looking for a
crossing, but we were expecting his return at any time; and invited
the stranger to dismount. He did so, and threw himself down in the
shade of our wagon. He was a small, boyish-looking fellow, of sandy
complexion, not much, if any, over twenty years old, and smiled
continuously.

"My name is Pete Slaughter," said he, by way of introduction, "and
I've got a herd of twenty-eight hundred beef steers, beyond the trail
and a few miles back. I've been riding since daybreak down the creek,
and I'm prepared to state that the c