Featherbed protested, but it was no use, and he returned and joined the whackers who had corralled and gathered the bulls inside the wagons, forming two half circles on a high spot near the trail. There were several other horses in the outfit, so Featherbed quickly slipped the boss' fine $200 rig on the back of a buckskin of the cow-puncher variety and sped back to the scene of action. But it was all over. The sneaking Indians had disappeared, and the only evidence of their presence was a spot of crumpled grass behind a knoll where several of them had lain in complete safety while they tried to send Featherbed to the Happy Hunting Ground. The sun was too high for the Indians, so they disappeared, skulking at safe distance to wait for darkness and perhaps other prey. Featherbed, after another shift of mounts and saddles and bridles, again took his post 1,000 yards from the trail, smoked his pipe, munched his sandwiches and drank the spring water. At ten o'clock camp was struck for the mid-day stop close to a creek of sweet cold water that ran through some small hills covered with stunted pines, a few miles from a range of black mountains out of the bad lands and sand. Featherbed was here promoted to the position of assistant wagon boss, presented with a big sorrel horse called "America" (because he was not Indian-bred) and given the lead team to drive in the outfit. This meant that, in co-operation with the "big boss," he would help select the camps, govern the speed of the "train," look after the manifests, act as check clerk in loading and unloading, and besides wear a red sash to designate his official position. Featherbed took his honors modestly, in fact he was surprised and couldn't understand it until someone told him the "old man" was pleased when he (Featherbed) took the wounded horse back to the train, saddled up another and returned to help find where the arrows came from. CHAPTER V RATTLESNAKES AND REDSKINS. The night-herder's song awoke me at four a. m.--the first streak of day--and I didn't have time to pull on my boots before the bulls were inside the corral; so, in bare feet, I yoked my fourteen head and then proceeded to pull on the cowhides, roll up my blankets and throw them on my trail wagon. Due to the haste--for nearly everyone else in the outfit was ready to "pull out" in response to the assistant wagon boss' order--I proceeded to pull on the left boot without the usual precautions. My fingers were in the straps as I sat on the ground,[1] and in another minute my toes would have been in the boot. But the rattler that had spent the night in it stuck out his head. I shook him out, first calling my pard to come with his whip. [Footnote 1: This was in the center of a prairie dog town covering perhaps twenty acres; and the "town" was inhabited not only by these marmots but rabbits, owls and rattlesnakes, apparently living in perfect peace and harmony in the same burrows.]