There were many wagons which went out that fall from Ellisville besides those of the party with which Franklin, Battersleigh, and Curly set out.

These three had a wagon and riding horses, and they were accompanied by a second wagon, owned by Sam, the liveryman, who took with him Curly's _mozo_, the giant Mexican, Juan.

The latter drove the team, a task which Curly scornfully refused when it was offered him, his cowboy creed rating any conveyance other than the saddle as far beneath his station.
"Juan can drive all right," he said.

"He druv a cook wagon all the way from the Red River up here.

Let him and Sam drive, and us three fellers'll ride." The task of the drivers was for the most part simple, as the flat floor of the prairies stretched away evenly mile after mile, the horses jogging along dejectedly but steadily over the unbroken short gray grass, ignorant and careless of any road or trail.
At night they slept beneath the stars, uncovered by any tent, and saluted constantly by the whining coyotes, whose vocalization was betimes broken by the hoarser, roaring note of the great gray buffalo wolf.