It was more like a funeral than a triumphal entry when Bill Dunham came leading the Texas herd into Kansas. Not even the belligerent Scotsman stood at the crossing to bar the way; not a voice was raised in protest, not a gun was fired. Somebody's counsel had prevailed.
The herd came down to the water slowly, the leaders stopping at knee-deep to sup a bit, then go on a little way and sup again, merely by way of sampling what they had come to, it seemed, for they were not thirsty, having been feeding on the dew-drenched grass since dawn. Dunham was across before the first of the cattle had set foot in the stream, Hughes and his son, with about half their force, coming along with the vanguard of the herd, everybody expecting a fight, and ready for it.
Dunham rode over to the Kansas shore, where he stopped, looking around as if waiting for anybody who felt disposed to dispute the way with him to make his appearance and get to work. The Kansas men had backed off from the ford, as Dunham had warned them to back. They were collected at the side of the trail a hundred yards or more beyond the ford, bunched up in what appeared to be a council.
Some of these men, of whom there must have been
