When the day-herders came out at daylight, they began kidding us about the pie. They thought we had tried to eat it. George had told them the joke he had played on us. So we went back and hunted up the pie to see what the joke was. We found it was made out of potato skins, onion peelings and clay, and other filth around the camp, with a cover on it in a pie tin and nicely baked. So we held a council of war to decide what to do about it. My partner wanted to take it to camp and hit him on the head with it. I suggested we make him eat it. He said that was a fine idea. Now I told him, “He is a big guy. Let’s double up on him.” So we planned our attack right there, and George not expecting it, we had him at a disadvantage. We unsaddled—walked into the cook tent. He said, “How did you like your pie, boys?” We said, “Fine—but brought part of it to camp so you could enjoy it with us.” I had the pie in my hand and he knew what was coming. He said, “The hell with you,” and started for a butcher knife—but my partner met him head on and they clinched. I nailed him from behind and we brought him to the ground with both of us on top of him. I got the pie to his mouth but he wouldn’t open, so I used the pie tin for an opener (not very gently) and got his teeth apart. I don’t think he swallowed any of it but he at least got a good taste of it—and any other dirty thing I could reach. When the pie-eating contest was over and had worked out to the messwagon tongue, and when we let George up, the first thing his hand found was the neck-yoke which was about four feet long, and a bad weapon just at that time, and George was sure going to clean up on us. But my partner had a forty-five Colts stuck in his chaps that George didn’t see and before he could get the neck-yoke into action, the gun was right against his stomach—full cock. He throwed the neck-yoke over his head and both hands in the air and said, “Don’t kill me.” Then we gave him some not too kind advice what his actions should be towards us in the future, and I will say George was a pretty good dog from that time on. That is the only time I ever double-teamed on anyone but felt justified that time under the circumstances. When the men came in off that day’s ride, George took his troubles to the boss, told him how we had doubled up on him and abused him. All he got was a hearty laugh from the boss (he was a Texas man). He said, “Did they sho ’nuff really make you eat the pie, George?” When we got to the railroad with that herd, there was two other big outfits shipping beef and we had to wait several days to get cars for our cattle. Big Sandy was the shipping point. The town had two saloons, one hotel, one store, stockyards and livery stable, and a jail. We had plenty of help and we took shifts holding the cattle. Those that wasn’t on shift spent most of their time in town, and it was sure lively during shipping time—and looked as good as Chicago to some of them cowboys.