Then the previous affability of our foreman turned into iron. “Well, men,” said he, “if you have no authority to cut this trail, then you don’t cut this herd. I must have inspection papers before I can move a brand out of the county in which it is bred, and I’ll certainly let no other man, local or duly appointed, cut an animal out of this herd without written and certified authority. You know that without being told, or ought to. I respect the rights of every man posted on a trail to cut it. If you want to see my inspection papers, you have a right to demand them, and in turn I demand of you your credentials, showing who you work for and the list of brands you represent; otherwise no harm’s done; nor do you cut any herd that I’m driving.” “Well,” said one of the men, “I saw a couple of head in my own individual brand as we rode up the herd. I’d like to see the man who says that I haven’t the right to claim my own brand, anywhere I find it.” “If there’s anything in our herd in your individual brand,” said Flood, “all you have to do is to give me the brand, and I’ll cut it for you. What’s your brand?” “The ‘Window Sash.’” “Have any of you boys seen such a brand in our herd?” inquired Flood, turning to us as we all stood by our horses ready to start. The strangers, who actually were rustlers, had hoped to bluff Flood out of some cattle. All herds traveling across unfenced range managed to pick up strays from time to time. When Flood would not let the men get away with their trick, they fell back on claiming cows with the “Window Sash” brand. Three such animals had found their way into the big herd as it moved north. After the rustlers angrily drove off their trio of scrawny cows, Flood met some Texas Rangers under the command of Corporal Homes. They laid a trap for the rustlers, who had threatened to return. Hames at once assumed charge of the herd, Flood gladly rendering every assistance possible. We night herded as usual, but during the two middle guards, Hames sent out four of his Rangers to scout the immediate outlying country, though, as we expected, they met with no adventure. At daybreak the Rangers threw their packs into our wagon and their loose stock into our _remuda_, and riding up the trail a mile or more, left us, keeping well out of sight. We were all hopeful now that the trail cutters of the day before would make good their word and return. In this hope we killed time for several hours that morning, grazing the cattle and holding the wagon in the rear. Sending the wagon ahead of the herd had been agreed on as the signal between our foreman and the Ranger corporal, at first sight of any posse behind us. We were beginning to despair of their coming, when a dust cloud appeared several miles back down the trail. We at once hurried the wagon and _remuda_ ahead to warn the Rangers, and allowed the cattle to string out nearly a mile in length.