The Cimarron is subject to sudden and dangerous floods, floods that seem to come from nowhere. In central Oklahoma, for example, weeks may pass without a drop of rain. A settler crosses the river at noon, blinded by the clouds of sand that have been whipped up by the wind, and finding the water scarcely reaching his horses' knees. Fifteen minutes later he returns to the crossing, and finds the river roaring and thundering from bank to bank. What is known as a "head rise," formed by a cloud-burst far out in the Plains country, has come down, a solid wall of water often four or five feet in height. Sometimes two or more of these "head rises" follow each other in succession. The sand is torn loose and brought up from the very bottom of the river. To venture into the Cimarron at such times would be folly. If it must be crossed, the safest way is to ride a horse that knows how to handle himself in a flood of this kind. If the rider can swim it is usually best for him to seize his horse's tail, and follow behind. The safest thing to do is to stay on dry land until the flood has passed, and then sound the crossing. The latter can be made firm by driving a herd of cattle back and forth, which causes the sand to precipitate and begin packing, soon forming a bar.
The Salt Fork of the Arkansas and the South Canadian are counterparts of the Cimarron in the dangers they oppose to travelers and live stock.
After crossing the Cimarron, which we accomplished without difficulty, we held a conference to discuss how we should meet the Indian problem, as discretion and prudence now impelled us to proceed with caution. It was agreed that if we should encounter Indians and find them manifesting friendship we would do likewise. This was their country, we argued, and if they would leave us alone, we would be willing to do an even better job than the Indians in this particular.
Ever since we had left Dodge City Fairchild had been eager to get into an Indian fight, and had bragged about what he would do when the time came. He said that he would not allow an Indian to do or say the least thing to him without his killing the Indian. He was bad medicine from the forks of the creek, a wolf with hydrophobia, a blizzard in July.
We fully understood the fact the Fairchild did not realize how much trouble a break on his part might bring to the whole outfit. We really feared that he might fire upon a peaceable Indian, and cause all of us to be massacred.
So it was thought best by several practical jokers among us to take time by the forelock in the particular case of the bloodthirsty Fairchild. We waited until we had reached the South Canadian before dosing out the medicine to him.
Fairchild loved to hunt, and would ride away from the outfit nearly every day, after deer and antelope. Some of the men had made Fairchild believe that he could kill an antelope at a distance of two miles, and he would blaze away as far as he could see them.
By "scratch" shots, Fairchild managed to kill several antelope and he swelled up with pride until he was almost unrecognizable. What finally happened to him will be told later.
After leaving the Cimarron, we crossed "No Man's Land." In the brakes of the Cimarron we had the hardest kind of pulling, as there was lots of sand and the country rough. The fourth day brought us to the Beaver, the main prong of the North Canadian, its other branch being Wolf Creek. Both the Beaver and Wolf Creek unite at Camp Supply, the point to which I had helped haul supplies for the Custer expedition, with the outfit of mules that stampeded in harness as we were returning to Fort Hays.
This time we struck the Palo Duro at its mouth, where there was plenty of water. Here we camped and then moved into the Panhandle of Texas. Now we began striking camps of buffalo-hunters who had prepared to stay on the Plains during the winter. They were as glad to see us as we were to find them. The coming of more hunters made everybody feel more secure, if there should be an outbreak by the Indians.