Wilson reached camp after midnight and reported the
hopelessness of the situation; but morning came, and with it no Yankee
Bill in camp. Half a dozen of us started in search of him, under the
leadership of the one-armed plainsman, and an hour afterward Bill was
met riding leisurely up the river. When rebuked by his comrade for not
coming in under cover of darkness, he retorted, "Hell, man, I wasn't
going to run my mule to death just because there were a few Comanches
in the country!"
In trailing the missing cattle the day previous, I had accompanied Mr.
Loving to the second Indian crossing. The country opposite the ford
was broken and brushy, the trail was five or six hours old, and,
fearing an ambush, the drover refused to follow them farther. With the
return of Yankee Bill safe and sound to camp, all hope of recovering
the beeves was abandoned, and we crossed the Pecos and turned up that
river. An effort was now made to quiet the herd and bring it back to a
normal condition, in order to fit it for delivery. With Indian raids,
frenzy in stampeding, and an unavoidable dry drive, the cattle had
gaunted like rails. But with an abundance of water and by merely
grazing the remainder of the distance, it was believed that the beeves
would recover their old form and be ready for inspection at the end of
the month of August. Indian sign was still plentiful, but in smaller
bands, and with an unceasing vigilance we wormed our way up the Pecos
valley.
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