Early Saturday morning Jack and Elsie started for Squaw Creek Valley, ten miles distant. It received its name from the fact that when the Comanche warriors went out on their raids, the squaws were left in this valley on the banks of the stream.
Clicker's step was light and springy as a panther's and his motion so easy that Jack felt as if in a rocking-chair. Elsie sat on her pony like the practised horsewoman she was. They were galloping over the cattle trail which at times was invisible, and they then gave their horses rein as every foot of the ground was familiar to them. Jack noticed with admiration how deftly the animals avoided the thorny mesquit and cacti.
Herds of sleek cattle grazed on the prairie covered with mesquit and buffalo grass. The former is the best in the world. It grows luxuriantly upon the plains of Texas, renews itself early in the spring, matures early, and throughout the year remains nutritious as naturally cured hay. Innumerable varieties of cacti blazed their gorgeous blossoms of
