Major
Hunter came to the rescue, in his usual calm manner, and expressed his
confidence that all would come out right in the end; that when the
mystery was unraveled the foreman would be found blameless.
I took a night train for the north, connected with a boat on the
Missouri River, and by finally taking stage reached Fort Randall. The
mental worry of those four days would age an ordinary man, but on my
arrival at the post a message from my active partner informed me that
my cattle had reached Dodge City two weeks before my leaving. Then the
scales fell from my eyes, as I could understand that when inquiries
were made for the Salt Fork, some wayfarer had given that name to
the Red Fork; and the new Dodge trail turned to the left, from the
Chisholm, at Little Turkey, the first creek crossed after leaving the
river. The message was supplemented a few days later by a letter,
stating that Dodge City would possibly be a better market than the
Bend, and that my interests would be looked after as well as if I were
present. A load was lifted from my shoulders, and when the wintered
cattle passed Randall, the whole post turned out to see the beef herd
on its way up to Lincoln. The government line of forts along the
Missouri River had the whitest lot of officers that it was ever my
good fortune to meet. I was from Texas, my tongue and colloquialisms
of speech proclaimed me Southern-born, and when I admitted having
served in the Confederate army, interest and attention was only
heightened, while every possible kindness was simply showered on me.
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