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So before Stubb had even time to unsaddle his horse, he was approached to know the history of these two trails.

“Well,” said Stubb somewhat hesitatingly, “I never like to refer to it. You see, I killed a man the day that right-hand trail was made: I’ll tell you about it some other time.”

“But why not now?” said Lucy, his curiosity aroused, as keen as a woman’s.

“Some other day,” said Stubb. “But did you notice those three graves on the last ridge of sand-hills to the right as we came out of the Cimarron bottoms yesterday? You did? Their tenants were killed over that trail; you see now why I hate to refer to it, don’t you? I was afraid to go back to Texas for three years afterward.”

“But why not tell me?” said the young man.

“Oh,” said Stubb, as he knelt down to put a hobble on his horse, “it would injure my reputation as a peaceable citizen, and I don’t mind telling you that I expect to marry soon.”

Having worked up the proper interest in his listener, besides exacting a promise that he would not repeat the story where it might do injury to him, he dragged his saddle up to the camp-fire. Making a comfortable seat with it, he riveted his gaze on the fire, and with a splendid sang-froid reluctantly told the history of the double trail.

“You see,” began Stubb, “the Chisholm route had been used more or less for ten years. This right-hand trail was made in ’73. I bossed that year from Van Zandt County, for old Andy Erath, who, by the way, was a dead square cowman with not a hide-bound idea in his make-up. Son, it was a pleasure to know old Andy. You can tell he was a good man, for if he ever got a drink too much, though he would never mention her otherwise, he always praised his wife. I’ve been with him up beyond the Yellowstone, two thousand miles from home, and you always knew when the old man was primed. He would praise his wife, and would call on us boys to confirm the fact that Mary, his wife, was a good woman.

“That year we had the better of twenty-nine hundred head, all steer cattle, threes and up, a likely bunch, better than these we are shadowing now. You see, my people are not driving this year, which is the reason that I am making a common hand with Inks. If I was to lay off a season, or go to the seacoast, I might forget the way. In those days I always hired my own men. The year that this right-hand trail was made, I had an outfit of men who would rather fight than eat; in fact, I selected them on account of their special fitness in the use of firearms. Why, Inks here couldn’t have cooked for my outfit that season, let alone rode. There was no particular incident worth mentioning till we struck Red River, where we overtook five or six herds that were laying over on account of a freshet in the river. I wouldn’t have a man those days who was not as good in the water as out. When I rode up to the river, one or two of my men were with me. It looked red and muddy and rolled just a trifle, but I ordered one of the boys to hit it on his horse, to see what it was like. Well, he never wet the seat of his saddle going or coming, though his horse was in swimming water good sixty yards. All the other bosses rode up, and each one examined his peg to see if the rise was falling. One fellow named Bob Brown, boss-man for John Blocker, asked me what I thought about the crossing. I said to him, ‘If this ferryman can cross our wagon for me, and you fellows will open out a little and let me in, I’ll show you all a crossing, and it’ll be no miracle either.’