cattle as well as large bunches.
“I don’t want any mavericks when this chore is over,” Slade told them. “Mavericks left after a round-up are a sign of careless combing. I want everything out of the canyons and brakes, and I want cows, not excuses.”
The hands resolved there would be neither mavericks nor excuses. They didn’t hanker to do any explaining to this particular round-up boss.
Slade sent the riders out in troops. Each troop would spread out over the range, dividing into smaller parties which presently scattered until the men were separated by distances that varied according to the topography of the country. Each man had to hunt out all the cattle on the section over which he rode. On the broken ground near the hills and in the canyons careful searching for small clumps or cannily holed-up old mossybacks was necessary.
The cows were gathered up in groups as large as the rider or riders could handle and driven to a designated holding spot where they were held in close herd. After the round-up boss decided a sufficient number had been assembled, the riders mounted fresh horses and the business of cutting out the various brands began. Into the milling, bawling and thoroughly bad-tempered mass went the riders, and it was a difficult and dangerous task. The cows dodged, the horsemen swore and finally the critter in question, mad as a hornet, was shoved to where the cut was being formed. Next the beefs were driven before the tally man who carefully checked off the brands. According to brand, the animals were distributed to the subsidiary holding spots of the various ranches.
Day after day the cowboys toiled in the dust and heat. Group after group of cattle streamed in. The various herds steadily grew larger. Only choice animals were held on this particular beef round-up, the others would be allowed to drift back onto the range.
Slade set his night guards with care. He didn’t think anybody would attempt a widelooping while the herds were at the holding spots, but a foolhardy raid might easily set off a stampede that would scatter the cows, mad with fright, all over the range, which would necessitate doing the work all over.
And while automatically attending to his numerous chores, he was constantly studying the bleak hills that soared up on three sides, for he was confident that somewhere in their granite breasts was locked the explanation of the recent weird happenings in the once peaceful valley. One day, near the close of the round-up, he hit on an old trail, little more than a game track, that wound up the fairly gentle side slope of a canyon. To all appearances it led to the rimrock far above. Acting on a sudden impulse he sent Shadow up the narrow track. An hour later he came out on the rim.
From where he sat his great black horse on the dizzy eminence the view was splendid; the valley and its surrounding hills were spread before his eyes like a map. He studied the green floor so far below him. Yes, the valley slope was definitely from north to south, but the hills were different. To the south they were much higher than to the north. A definite reversal of contours. He envisioned the terrain as it must have been a million, perhaps ten million years before. The whole great basin was a sheet of tossing water. Yellow sand banks extended far into the wide inland sea. Its verge was a mass of tall reeds and stupendous vegetation in which huge monsters, scaled and tailed, wallowed and fought. Farther back was the bold shore line that now formed the hills which encircled the bowl. Even the surface of the shore line was doubtless naked stone, while near the water the monstrous vegetation grew with incredible rapidity, died as swiftly and fell, layer on layer, into the turgid water, sinking to the primal ooze, washed over by silt and sand, sinking deeper and deeper under the accumulated weight, while in the dark depths the slow and subtle chemistry of nature wrought unexplainable change.
Followed a long
“I don’t want any mavericks when this chore is over,” Slade told them. “Mavericks left after a round-up are a sign of careless combing. I want everything out of the canyons and brakes, and I want cows, not excuses.”
The hands resolved there would be neither mavericks nor excuses. They didn’t hanker to do any explaining to this particular round-up boss.
Slade sent the riders out in troops. Each troop would spread out over the range, dividing into smaller parties which presently scattered until the men were separated by distances that varied according to the topography of the country. Each man had to hunt out all the cattle on the section over which he rode. On the broken ground near the hills and in the canyons careful searching for small clumps or cannily holed-up old mossybacks was necessary.
The cows were gathered up in groups as large as the rider or riders could handle and driven to a designated holding spot where they were held in close herd. After the round-up boss decided a sufficient number had been assembled, the riders mounted fresh horses and the business of cutting out the various brands began. Into the milling, bawling and thoroughly bad-tempered mass went the riders, and it was a difficult and dangerous task. The cows dodged, the horsemen swore and finally the critter in question, mad as a hornet, was shoved to where the cut was being formed. Next the beefs were driven before the tally man who carefully checked off the brands. According to brand, the animals were distributed to the subsidiary holding spots of the various ranches.
Day after day the cowboys toiled in the dust and heat. Group after group of cattle streamed in. The various herds steadily grew larger. Only choice animals were held on this particular beef round-up, the others would be allowed to drift back onto the range.
Slade set his night guards with care. He didn’t think anybody would attempt a widelooping while the herds were at the holding spots, but a foolhardy raid might easily set off a stampede that would scatter the cows, mad with fright, all over the range, which would necessitate doing the work all over.
And while automatically attending to his numerous chores, he was constantly studying the bleak hills that soared up on three sides, for he was confident that somewhere in their granite breasts was locked the explanation of the recent weird happenings in the once peaceful valley. One day, near the close of the round-up, he hit on an old trail, little more than a game track, that wound up the fairly gentle side slope of a canyon. To all appearances it led to the rimrock far above. Acting on a sudden impulse he sent Shadow up the narrow track. An hour later he came out on the rim.
From where he sat his great black horse on the dizzy eminence the view was splendid; the valley and its surrounding hills were spread before his eyes like a map. He studied the green floor so far below him. Yes, the valley slope was definitely from north to south, but the hills were different. To the south they were much higher than to the north. A definite reversal of contours. He envisioned the terrain as it must have been a million, perhaps ten million years before. The whole great basin was a sheet of tossing water. Yellow sand banks extended far into the wide inland sea. Its verge was a mass of tall reeds and stupendous vegetation in which huge monsters, scaled and tailed, wallowed and fought. Farther back was the bold shore line that now formed the hills which encircled the bowl. Even the surface of the shore line was doubtless naked stone, while near the water the monstrous vegetation grew with incredible rapidity, died as swiftly and fell, layer on layer, into the turgid water, sinking to the primal ooze, washed over by silt and sand, sinking deeper and deeper under the accumulated weight, while in the dark depths the slow and subtle chemistry of nature wrought unexplainable change.
Followed a long
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