At the other end of the Highbank-Gunsight trail the warm afternoon was drawing to a close and the shadows of the buildings were reaching out across the dirt streets when a dust-covered, four-horse freight wagon rolled down the steep bank across the river to an accompaniment of rattling trace chains and grinding brakes, passed the end of the ford, followed the road along the river's edge and crept out onto the big, flat-bottomed ferry which awaited it. "On time to a tick," smiled the ferryman, poling off and shifting the lengths of the trolley ropes leading to the block which ran on the great, sagging cable overhead The current struck the side of the craft at the changed angle and sent it slowly across. "I got an extra early start," explained Buffalo. "Got a fine load of hides." "You young fellers are h--l on branchin' out," said the ferryman, grinning. "Well," replied the freighter, "they was lyin' there; I only picked 'em up." "Here we are; hold tight," laughed the boatman. He used his pole deftly and the ferry struck the bank squarely. Making it fast, he lowered the short gang-plank. "All ashore, an' good luck!" The quartet strained and the wagon rumbled up the bank and then up the road in the wide ravine, and in a few minutes struck the level at the top and entered the main street of the town. "Brazos" Larkin, town marshal, pushed away from the Highbank bank and rolled out to the wagon, stepped on a hub and then up to the footboard, as was his custom. "Judgin' from th' way those no-'count hosses was pullin' when they come over th' hill," he said, "I reckoned you got th' hides; but now I'm dead shore of it." "Yep," chuckled Buffalo, "they smells good to me." "Dodge th' Injuns all right?" asked Brazos, indulging in a time-honored jest. "Dodged 'em ag'in," gravely nodded the driver. "Here comes th' postmaster. Hello, Jim!" Jim Hands walked up to the wagon and alongside as it turned the corner and stopped before a frame building bearing in weather-bleached letters across its front: "Wheatley's Express." As it stopped, a tall, lean young man came out and smiled. "Everythin' all right, Pop?" he asked. "Right as a dollar. Can't you smell 'em?" chuckled the old man. "Jerry," said Brazos, "I hears yo're quittin' th' office for a wagon next week?" "I am; I wanted to swap jobs right along with Pop. Now that we're goin' to run two waggins I'll get a chance to bust out of this jail; an' Pop can still see his friends along th' trail, too. I start in a day or two." A small group came up and joined them. In it was Rod Wilson, the liveryman; Reb Travers, the railroad freight agent; and Pete Wiggins, the owner of the hotel. They all were cronies of the same vintage as the driver and formed a closed circle into which, however, they had admitted Brazos. "Bet you didn't git a load," said Rod. "Bet you didn't git _half_ a load," amended Reb.