north of the river; while they turned one bunch a dozen others
were straggling out from shore, the timid following single file
behind a leader more venturesome or more desperate than his
fellows.

So the march went on and on: big, Southern-bred steer grappling
the problem of his first Northern winter; thin- flanked cow with
shivering, rough-coated calf trailing at her heels; humpbacked
yearling with little nubs of horns telling that he was lately in
his calfhood; red cattle, spotted cattle, white cattle, black
cattle; white-faced Herefords, Short-horns, scrubs; Texas
longhorns--of the sort invariably pictured in stampedes--still
they came drifting out of the cold wilderness and on into
wilderness as cold.

Through the shifting wall of the worst blizzard that season
Thurston watched the weary, fruitless, endless march of the
range. "Where do they all come from?" he exclaimed once when
the snow-veil lifted and showed the river black with cattle.

"Lord! I dunno," Gene answered, shrugging his shoulders against
the pity of it. "I seen some brands yesterday that I know
belongs up in the Cypress Hills country. If things don't loosen
up pretty soon, the whole darned range will be swept clean uh
stock as far north as cattle run. I'm looking for reindeer
next."

"Something ought to be done," Thurston declared uneasily,
turning away from the sight. "I've had the bellowing of
starving cattle in my ears day and night for nearly a month.