Coming in from grooming the black horse one day, Jack declared:
"The more I handle that horse the better I like him. He's one of the best I ever rubbed a brush over. I've been wondering who that jayhawker could have stole him from an' dreading lest the owner should follow us up an' claim his property, in which case, of course, we'd have to give him up."
"Well, Jack," I replied, "it ain't likely that the owner of the horse, whoever he may be, will ever bother us; and when we hear from the old storekeeper, back where you got him, if no owner has shown up there to inquire about him, then your claim is the next best and he'll be your horse."
"No," said the impulsive Irishman, "ef we're to git to kape him he's to be company property—he'll belong to all of us."
"Well," put in Tom, "I've been thinkin' that the black horse is entitled to a name, anyhow. We've named the mules—or Wild Bill did—'Dink' an' 'Judy' an' the broncos 'Polly' an' 'Vinegar'; now, what'll we call the horse?"
"Why not call him 'Captain Tucker,' after the jayhawker?" I suggested.
"No," promptly objected Jack, "it wouldn't be treatin' the horse fair to call him after such a scoundrel."
"How would 'Black Prince' do?" proposed Tom.
"That suits me better. 'Black Prince' it shall be."
Passing successively Cottonwood Creek, Big and Little Turkey Creeks, Little Arkansas, Jarvis Creek, Big and Little Cow Creeks, we reached Big Bend, the point where the Santa Fé trail, going westward, first strikes the Arkansas River.