It was well past noon when Dunham arrived at the cattlemen's camp on the Cimarron. Zora had been as good as her word about giving him a start. She had accompanied him ten miles or more, posting him on the landmarks which would assure him he was following the trail, although there was little chance of straying from it.
Texas cattlemen had opened that trail a good many years ago on their drives to Fort Hays, and later to Dodge City. Cattle by hundreds of thousands had walked that unhappy road leading to the stockyards and slaughter; it was worn in the tough sod like a brand. The tracks of Shad Brassfield's wagon were in the dust; Dunham knew he only had to follow them to come to the place he sought.
The cattlemen had gathered under the cottonwoods on bank of the river, which had water enough in it to give it a fair right to that designation, although Dunham thought it would pass more respectably as a creek. There were several horses standing around, and a dozen or more men in sight, three of them sitting on the tongue of the chuck-wagon, which was propped up to a comfortable level by the neckyoke. It looked more like a casual meeting of travelers, who were passing a
