“I am aware,” said John Horton, “that Captain Osborn has a different belief. My old friend, Major Buell Hampton, also takes occasion to brand me as a ‘cattle baron’ in the columns of his paper. Nevertheless, Mr. Stanton, they are both my friends, and I esteem them both as royal good fellows. I assure you, however, that they are sadly mistaken in regard to this being a farmer’s paradise. Wait until the hot winds come. Now hot winds don’t hurt the buffalo grass a particle, for it is indigenous to this soil and climate; but there’s nothing grown by the farmer that can stand before the hot winds.” “Major Hampton was telling me the other day,” said Hugh, “that the cattle thieves had just stolen two hundred head of your fattest cattle.” “Yes, that is the latest outrage; but they have been stealing my cattle for the last year. Before the settlers came here we had no cattle thieves to speak of in this country. Major Hampton is a true Southerner, and is doing nis utmost to run down the thieves. I contend that the thieves are none other than the so-called farmers. The major, however, insists that the gang is made up of lawless cowboys.” “The major seemed very much provoked when he heard of the theft,” said Hugh, “and from the article that appeared in the Patriot the following morning, I imagine that he would be a very severe judge.” “The major’s personal assistance and the influence of his paper are both on the side of law and order,” replied Mr. Horton. “I have no doubt that sooner or later we shall be successful in running down the thieves.” The cattle king removed his sombrero, and, leaning against his horse, fanned himself with its broad brim, as he continued: “The major is a little weak up here,” tapping his forehead, “or else I am when it comes to the matter of politics. I served in a Georgia regiment through the last years of the war, and fought for the cause that was lost. When the war was over, I accepted the conditions of our surrender by respecting the stars and stripes, and have voted a straight Democratic ticket without a scratch ever since. I cannot understand how the major could give up his democracy for populistic doctrines. However, he is withal a noble fellow.” As the cattle king bared his head, Hugh noticed that it was quite bald, and that it had a great red scar near the crown. “It is very gratifying,” said Hugh, with his eyes on the scar, “to see those who fought for the lost cause and those who fought to subdue the rebellion living here, side by side, in peace.” “Yes,” replied Horton, “the wounds are all healed, but the scars are left. Hello! there comes Bill Kinneman, one of my most trustworthy cowboys. Hello, Bill, what’s the news?” Bill Kinneman was short and stoop-shouldered. He had a low forehead, thick black hair, cut square around, a small nose, a protruding chin, and a scraggy beard. A pair of squinting, bloodshot eyes combined with his other facial make-up to give him the appearance of a brute.