Little Paint traveled jauntily behind the wagon, and we could hear money jingling every time his feet hit the ground. There were at least ten of us traveling together, and about three times that many were still back on the roundup grounds awaiting the opportunity to come and see the show. A rotation had been worked out whereby all of the hands could get a little time in Mobeetie for the holiday. Those left on guard with the herd would be relieved by others who had already spent their allotted time enjoying the sights. The only problem was that, no matter what, somebody was going to have to miss the race, and nobody wanted to. They say a good cowboy never left the herd, but I had a feeling that there were going to be some cattle in a certain neighborhood left unattended for at least the duration of an afternoon. A hundred yards from the gamblers’ camp we were hailed by a chorus of drunken yells and pistol shots. From the looks of things their camp had quadrupled in size. Half of Mobeetie and Ft.
