The
herd was as good as abandoned unless we could lend a hand.
The appeal was not in vain. Detailing four of my men, and leaving
Jack Splann as segundo in charge of our cattle, I galloped away
with the stranger. As we rode the short distance between the two
herds and I mentally reviewed the situation, I could not help but
think it was fortunate for the alien outfit that their employer
was a Northern cowman instead of a Texan. Had the present owner
been of the latter school, there would have been more than one
dead Mexican before a valuable herd would have been abandoned
over an unavoidable accident. I kept my thoughts to myself,
however, for the man had troubles enough, and on reaching his
drifting herd, we turned them back on their course. It was high
noon when we reached his wagon and found the Mexican outfit still
keening over their dead comrade. We pushed the cattle, a mixed
herd of about twenty-five hundred, well past the camp, and riding
back, dismounted among the howling vaqueros. There was not the
semblance of sanity among them. The foreman, who could speak some
little English, at least his employer declared he could, was
carrying on like a madman, while a majority of the vaqueros were
playing a close second. The dead man had been carried in and was
lying under a tarpaulin in the shade of the wagon. Feeling that
my boys would stand behind me, and never offering to look at the
corpse, I inquired in Spanish of the vaqueros which one of the
men was their corporal.
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