"There was nothing else worth mentioning until we struck the Cimarron
back here, where we overtook a herd of Chisholm's that had come in
from the east. They had crossed through the Arbuckle Mountains--came
in over the old Whiskey Trail. Here was another herd waterbound, and
the boss-man was as important as a hen with one chicken. He told me
that the river wouldn't be fordable for a week; wanted me to fall back
at least five miles; wanted all this river bottom for his cattle; said
he didn't need any help to cross his herd, though he thanked me for
the offer with an air of contempt. I informed him that our cattle
were sold for delivery on the North Platte, and that we wanted to go
through on time. I assured him if he would drop his cattle a mile down
the river, it would give us plenty of room. I told him plainly that
our cattle, horses, and men could all swim, and that we never let a
little thing like swimming water stop us.

"No! No! he couldn't do that; we might as well fall back and take our
turn. 'Oh, well,' said I, 'if you want to act contrary about it, I'll
go up to the King-Fisher crossing, only three miles above here. I've
almost got time to cross yet this evening.'

"Then he wilted and inquired, 'Do you think I can cross if it swims
them any?'

"'I'm not doing your thinking, sir,' I answered, 'but I'll bring
up eight or nine good men and help you rather than make a six-mile
elbow.' I said this with some spirit and gave him a mean look.

"'All right,' said he, 'bring up your boys, say eight o'clock, and we
will try the ford. Let me add right here,' he continued, 'and I'm a