Early next morning the herd was on the march toward the crossing of the Cimarron. Hughes appeared considerably mollified in his bearing toward Dunham, who rode with him and Bob at the head of the long line of cattle, so thoroughly trail-broken after their months of this daily routine they filed along like soldiers.
Hughes said the Cimarron was treacherous, like all those western Kansas rivers, full of quicksands in which cattle would mire down, causing endless trouble and delay to pull them out. There always was more or less panic in a herd when one of those quagmires was struck, with attendant loss and suffocation.
To avoid such a calamity as this, Hughes was going to ford the river at the old crossing, instead of trying to get over at some other place not so strongly guarded, where the river ran entirely inside the Indian country. The law was on his side, as far as any law went in that country, and he would proceed under the assumption that he had a law-abiding citizen's right to follow a public road. He had not been informed, officially, of anybody's objection.
So Hughes talked as he rode at the head of his herd, as if trying to assure himself, or build up an argument that would stand him in good service when needed. He
