The marksman might now be seen to be a man of anywhere from forty to sixty years of age, wrinkled of face, crowned with stubbly hair. His dark, thick skin showed him to be of mixed blood. His garb was that of the white man, save that he wore no hat. He leaned on his deadly rifle with unconcern and in silence as the trail men approached.
“How, friend!” saluted Nabours.
“How do you do?” replied the other in fair English. “Which way you go?”
“North. We’ve got a herd of cows, three thousand head, five miles south of here.”
“Three thousand head! Ha! You go Ab’lene—Caldwell—Wich’ta?”
“Yes, if we can ever get through here. I was wondering what had drifted the buffalo.”
“I kill ’em few for hides,” grinned the half-breed. “My man come pretty soon for skin. My camp over, there, maybe so two mile. Where you come from?”
“Caldwell County,” answered Nabours. “Our brand is T. L. You’re headed south? Are you buffalo hunting?”
“No, got wagon train—Army supplies. Take ’em south from railroad across Nations, for Caddoes, Wichitas, Wacos. I just laying out road for wagons. Army forts got to have supplies.”
“Well, the country needs a road all right,” commented Nabours. “We started to find what they call the Chisholm Trail. There ain’t no such a thing.”