The men by the fire were ready. One of them perched on the steer's flank and freed the lariat, while another sat astride his neck and amidst a gush of blood sawed off the horns close to the head. John seared the stubs with the hot iron dipped in tar. The poor brute bellowed with fright and pain. Judith recoiled her lariat and made way for Jimmy Day, who slid up with a protesting heifer.
"Jude!" he shouted. "You're the cow ropingest girl in the Rockies! Say, Jude, ain't you afraid that baa-baa you're riding will buck with you? Swift! What a hell of a name for that thing!"
"She can beat you roping 'em at that, Jimmy!" cried Douglas.
"Better ride light, Jimmy," warned John. "She thinks more of that mare than she does of me."
"All right, John," laughed Jimmy. "Take this heifer, fellows! She thinks she's a moose!"
"She'll think she's a kitten when we finish with her," chuckled John.
There was an uproar now in the two corrals that echoed from mountain to mountain. The trampled snow was crimson. White angora and sheepskin chaps were gaumed with thick clots of blood. The horses, half frantic from the smell of the bleeding cattle, tried every means in their not limited repertoires to bolt the hateful job.
The work had gone fast and furiously for some time when Douglas touched his father on the arm.
"Dad, look up on the shoulder of old Dead Line!"
John straightened his back and shaded his eyes. A rider leading a Hereford was coming down the ridge.
"That's Scott's horse, Grover," said Douglas. "Can you make out the rider?"
