In reply a
six-shooter was thrown in the major's face, when a number of us rushed
in on our horses and the pistol was struck from the man's hand. An
explanation was demanded, but the only intelligent reply that could be
elicited from the owner of the white steer was, "No G---- d----
Yankee can classify my cattle." One of the ranchmen with whom we
were contracting took the insult off my hands and gave the man his
choice,--to fight or apologize. The seller cooled down, apologies
followed, and the unfortunate incident passed and was forgotten with
the day's work.
A week later the herds on the Colorado River moved out. Major Hunter
and I looked them over before they got away, after which he continued
on north to buy in the deficiency of three thousand wintered beeves,
while I returned home to start my individual cattle. The ranch outfit
had been at work for ten days previous to my arrival gathering the
three-year-old steers and all dry and barren cows. On my return they
had about eight thousand head of mixed stock under herd and two trail
outfits were in readiness, so cutting them separate and culling them
down, we started them, the cows for Dodge and the steers for Ogalalla,
each thirty-five hundred strong. Two outfits had left for the Double
Mountain range ten days before, and driving night and day, I reached
the ranch to find both herds shaped up and ready for orders.
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