From the four coaches which made up the train there now descended an astonishing number of men, comprising all sorts and conditions of humanity. Some obviously were Eastern, and as many bore the imprint of the border. All of them pushed on toward the head of the train. There was no station building. The Drovers’ Cottage stood then for all of Abilene, and in that general direction the newcomers made their way. The ubiquitous McCoyne was first to greet them. “Right this way, gentlemen!” said he. “Let me lead you to our hotel, the finest in the West. Welcome to Abilene, my friends! Yonder is the stockyards. I suppose some of you are looking after cattle. There is some in there now, and there is three thousand more right north of town. If you’re looking for cattle, we’ve got them and don’t you never doubt it! Gentlemen, you certainly have come to the right place. Boys, where’s the band?” With some sort of instinct of his own McCoyne more especially addressed a quiet-looking sandy-bearded man in dark clothing, who seemed to be a man of distinct purposes and direct methods in life. “How’d you like to ride out this evening and see our herd? They’ve just got in from Texas this morning.” The stranger made a noncommittal reply to the effect that he was hungry. The crowd of newcomers began to disintegrate. Men looked after their hand bags, their rifles. Picturesque, certainly, was the personnel of every westbound train in Kansas at that time, when the head of steel was but little beyond the boom town of Abilene, first cow camp of Kansas. Hickok and McMasters stood near the door of the Drovers’ Cottage, looking at the stirring and curious scene before them. The man of the Northern border was quiet after his fashion, moody. He turned suddenly to Dan McMasters. “Look at them come!” he said. “Next year they’ll be here in thousands; and there’ll be cattle here in thousands too.” McMasters nodded. The older man went on: “Let me give you some advice. There is going to be big money in raising and selling cattle right up in this country; more money than there will be in trailing them north and selling at the road. If you’ll listen to me, you’ll get some land of your own up here. I’ll tell you where you can get a ranch, and a good one, over on the Smoky Hill, with all outdoors for your pasture. Put some cows on there. They’ll get fatter here than they ever will in Texas, though you don’t believe it. I’ve seen cattle up here, around the Army posts—and fat too. There’s no money in selling thin cattle. You’ll find that out if you keep at it. I’ve lived up here, north of the tick line, longer than you have.” McMasters nodded. “I’ve been studying this country now for quite a while,” said he. “I’ve seen some wintered cattle up in here, and as you say they were heavier. There’s a lot to be learned by Texas men. They don’t know that there is any world north of thirty-six. They’re still fighting the war, down in my state.”