"What's he got?"
"Just his outfit."
"But what are all the cattle?"
"His team."
"Not one team?"
"Yes; eleven yoke."
"Twenty-two oxen in one team?"
"Yes; and four wagons."
The head yoke of oxen was now opposite to us, swaying about from side to side and switching their tails in the air, but still pressing forward at the rate of perhaps a mile and a half or two miles an hour. Far back along the procession we could dimly see a man walking in the dust beside the last yoke, swinging a long whip which cracked in the air like a rifle. Behind rolled and swayed the four great canvas-topped wagons, tied behind one another. We watched the strange procession go by. There was only one man, without doubt Henderson, grizzled and seemingly sixty years old. The wagon wheels were almost as tall as he was, and the tires were four inches wide. The last wagon disappeared up the trail in the dust and darkness.
"Well," said Jack, "I think when I start out driving at this time of night with twenty-two guileless oxen and four ten-ton wagons that I'll want to get somewhere pretty badly."