“North. We’ve got a herd of cows, three thousand head, five miles south of here.” “Three thousand head! Ha! You go Ab’lene—Caldwell—Wich’ta?” “Yes, if we can ever get through here. I was wondering what had drifted the buffalo.” “I kill ’em few for hides,” grinned the half-breed. “My man come pretty soon for skin. My camp over, there, maybe so two mile. Where you come from?” “Caldwell County,” answered Nabours. “Our brand is T.L. You’re headed south? Are you buffalo hunting?” “No, got wagon train—Army supplies. Take ’em south from railroad across Nations, for Caddoes, Wichitas, Wacos. I just laying out road for wagons. Army forts got to have supplies.” “Well, the country needs a road all right,” commented Nabours. “We started to find what they call the Chisholm Trail. There ain’t no such a thing.” “No?” The oldish face wrinkled into a smile. “No find ’em trail? Too bad! You don’t know me,” he added after a time. “No, we don’t know nobody.” “I’m Jesse Chisholm. My ranch is in Nations, south long way. I bring plenty horses up from Texas. I know your people. I been all across Texas from Palo Pinto to Double Mountain Fork, Buffalo Gap, Estacado; all the time I make trails.” “And you have left one behind you now?” “Sure! She’s easy from here to Caldwell. I got fifty wagon, plenty horse, plenty mule; make ford, sometime make bridge, sometime make raft. I got some wagons for Colonel Griswold. He’s going to make big reservation for Kiowas and Comanches. Fort Sill, he’ll call ’em.” “So you’re Jesse Chisholm?” remarked Jim Nabours after a time. “I didn’t know for sure there was no such person. Tell me, is there such a place as Aberlene?” “Sure! I trail up Arkansas River from east, pass Wichita. I hear Ab-lene up north. Sure!” “All the Injuns know Jesse Chisholm,” he continued. “Osage, Cherokee, Choctaw, Chickasaw—I trade ’em horse all through there. I know Shawnee Trail, through Choctaws.” “Then tell us, friend, since you know this country pretty well, how far is it out of the Nations from here?” “Maybe so fifty-six mile. Caldwell, he’s on line above Osages. Always grass. So you go Ab’lene?” Nabours nodded. “We don’t know where it is.” “You come my camp with me. I got a man in my camp, he come from Ab’lene. He come down here to find you people.” “Find us? He never heard of us!” “I dunno. He say he come south till he meets cows. He show you Ab’lene all right.” “Len, ride back to the men and tell them to hold the herd till I come,” said Nabours, turning. “I may be late. I’ll go over and see what there is in all this.” Without further speech, the famous half-breed trail maker led them back for a quarter of a mile or so to where he had picketed his horse. Soon they passed another uncommunicative half-breed, driving a wagon team. A few words between him and Chisholm, and the driver passed on to begin his share of the work—skinning the dead buffalo, for their hides alone.