“Naw,” said Joe. “He squatted on a little sandy hill on the Trinity somewheres east of where Dallas is now. It was jest an accident that he stopped where he did.” “How was that?” asked Lanky. “Well,” said Joe, “you see, it was like this. They was travelin’ west in their customary and habitual manner, which was with the Ole Man and the six oldest kids walkin’ alongside Spot and Buck, and the Ole Woman and the seven youngest kids in the wagon. Jest as they was comin’ to the foot of a sandy hill, a big rain come up. It rained so hard that the Ole Man couldn’t see the wagon, but he stuck close to them trusty oxen of his, and they went right up the hill. When he got to the top, he seen that it had about quit rainin’; and he looked back and seen the wagon still at the bottom of the hill, and there was the brats that had been walkin’ with him under it.” “Did the harness break?” asked Lanky. “Naw, it wasn’t that,” said Joe. “You see, he was usin’ a rawhide lariat for a log-chain, and it had got wet. I reckon you know what rawhide does when it gits wet, don’t you, Lanky? It stretches. There ain’t no rubber that will stretch like wet rawhide. Well, that’s what happened to that lariat. It stretched so that the Ole Man drove his oxen a mile up the hill without movin’ the wagon an inch. Not an inch had he moved her, by gar. “Well, the sun was shinin’ now, and it got brighter and brighter, and while the Ole Man was wonderin’ what in the dickens to do next, Ole Spot jest dropped down dead from sunstroke. That sort of got next to the Ole Man, for he said that brute had been a real friend to him, and besides he was worth his weight in gold. Still, he ’lowed he’d might as well skin him. So he got out his old Bowie knife and started to work. “Well, sir, while he was skinnin’ Spot, a norther came up, and damn me, if Ole Buck didn’t keel over, froze to death. “So the Ole Man decided he’d jest as well stop there where he was. So he told the Ole Woman to bring up the brats. He throwed the ox yoke over a stump; and the Ole Woman brought up some chuck and some beddin’ from the wagon. Then they et supper and tucked the kids into bed. The Ole Man tried to blow out the lantern, but she wouldn’t blow. He raised up the globe, and there was the flame froze stiff as an icicle. He jest broke it off and buried it in the sand and turned in and went to sleep. “The next mornin’ when he woke up, it was clear and the sun was warm. Well, the Ole Woman cooked a bite, and while they was eatin’, here come the wagon right up the hill. You see the rawhide was dryin’ out. That’s the way it does.”