Two whole days had now elapsed without
water for the cattle.
I had not slept a wink the two previous nights. The south fork of the
Llano lay over twenty miles distant, and although it had ample water
two weeks before, one of the foremen and I rode through to it that
night to satisfy ourselves. The supply was found sufficient, and
before daybreak we were back in camp, arousing the outfits and
starting the herds. In the spring of 1878 the old military trail, with
its rocky sentinels, was still dimly defined from Nueces Canon north
to the McKinzie water-hole on the South Llano. The herds moved out
with the dawn. Thousands of the cattle were travel-sore, while a few
hundred were actually tender-footed. The evening before, as we came
out into the open country, we had seen quite a local shower of rain in
our front, which had apparently crossed our course nearly ten miles
distant, though it had not been noticeable during our night's ride.
The herds fell in behind one another that morning like columns of
cavalry, and after a few miles their stiffness passed and they led out
as if they had knowledge of the water ahead. Within two hours after
starting we crossed a swell of the mesa, when the lead herd caught a
breeze from off the damp hills to the left where the shower had fallen
the evening before. As they struck this rise, the feverish cattle
raised their heads and pulled out as if that vagrant breeze had
brought them a message that succor and rest lay just beyond.
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