On approaching Fort Worth, still traveling slowly on account of
the lateness of the spring, I decided to pay a flying visit to Palo
Pinto County. It was fully eighty miles from the Fort across to the
Edwards ranch, and appointing one of my old men as segundo, I
saddled my best horse and set out an hour before sunset. I had made
the same ride four years previously on coming to the country, a
cool night favored my mount, and at daybreak I struck the Brazos
River within two miles of the ranch. An eventful day followed; I
reeled off innocent white-faced lies by the yard, in explaining the
delightful winter I had spent with my brother in Missouri.
Fortunately the elder Edwards was not driving any cattle that year,
and George was absent buying oxen for a Fort Griffin freighter.
Good
