consignment arrived. Thurston haunted the stockyards with his
Kodak, but after the first two or three days he took no
pictures. For every day was but a repetition of those that had
gone before: a great, grimy engine shunting cars back and forth
on the siding; an endless stream of weary, young cattle flowing
down the steep chutes into the pens, from the pens to the
branding chutes, where they were burned deep with the mark of
their new owners; then out through the great gate, crowding,
pushing, wild to flee from restraint, yet held in and guided by
mounted cowboys; out upon the green prairie where they could
feast once more upon sweet grasses and drink their fill from the
river of clear, mountain water; out upon the weary march of the
trail, on and on for long days until some boundary which their
drivers hailed with joy was passed, and they were free at last
to roam at will over the wind-brushed range land; to lie down in
some cool, sweet-scented swale and chew their cuds in peace.

Two weeks, and then came a telegram for Park. In the reading of
it he shuffled off his attitude of boyish irresponsibility and
became in a breath the cool, business-like leader of men.
Holding the envelope still in his hand he sought out Thurston,
who was practicing with a rope. As Park approached him he
whirled the noose and cast it neatly over the peak of the
night-hawk's teepee.

"Good shot," Park encouraged, "but I'd advise yuh to take
another target. You'll have the tent down over Scotty's ears,
and then you'll think yuh stirred up a mess uh hornets.

"Say, Bud, our cattle are coming, and I'm going to be short uh