passage of a wagon of grain; the old West and the new West met and intermingled. Cowboys turned for the time into farm hands eyed the cattle appraisingly while the way was being cleared for them.
"Look pretty good this year."
"Not so bad." Or:
"Kinda poor, aren't they?"
"Shipping to the feeders. Got some better stuff coming next Thursday."
Thursday. It was always Thursday, for the Monday morning market in Chicago.
The cattle would plod on, ten miles a day, to save all the weight possible. The dust hung over them in clouds, the cowboys sagged in their saddles at ease, now that the hard riding of the round-up itself was over. But there was still much to do. In the empty fields out beyond the pens they would again work their cattle, cutting out and holding the cut, and throwing back the unwanted stock that had drifted along with the herd. Then there would be the final loading, the nervous spooky cattle balking at the gangway and milling frantically, the final triumphant start up, the prodding and slapping until the car was full, and the signal for the engine to shunt another car into its place.
But before the L. D. was ready to round-up things had come to a crisis between Tom McNair and Kay.
Fair-time was approaching. In the bunk house in the evenings the men talked of little else. "If I draw that Romannosed pony of Saunders's again I'll bust out cryin'. It gave a couple of crow-hops last year and then looked around for a piece of sugar!"
"The fellow that gets old Abe'll get first money."
"He'll get a doctor bill."
The Indians were already driving down their animals from the Reservation, fast running horses and buckers, and putting their money on Little Dog, their best rider. And in his spare moments Tom was going over his equipment; fastening new leathers to his spurs, looking over his chaps, examining the green silk shirt in which he meant to stand out "like a sore thumb" before the grand-stand.
