All the while this ceaseless activity was going on there was a
strange uproar--bawl and bellow, the shock of heavy bodies
meeting and falling, the shrill jabbering of the vaqueros, and
the shouts and banterings of the cowboys. They took sharp orders
and replied in jest. They went about this stern toil as if it
were a game to be played in good humor. One sang a rollicking
song, another whistled, another smoked a cigarette. The sun was
hot, and they, like their horses, were dripping with sweat. The
characteristic red faces had taken on so much dust that cowboys
could not be distinguished from vaqueros except by the difference
in dress. Blood was not wanting on tireless hands. The air was
thick, oppressive, rank with the smell of cattle and of burning
hide.

Madeline began to sicken. She choked with dust, was almost
stifled by the odor. But that made her all the more determined
to stay there. Florence urged her to come away, or at least move
back out of the worst of it. Stillwell seconded Florence.
Madeline, however, smilingly refused. Then her brother said:
"Here, this is making you sick. You're pale." And she replied
that she intended to stay until the day's work ended. Al gave
her a strange look, and made no more comment. The kindly
Stillwell then began to talk.

"Miss Majesty, you're seein' the life of the cattleman an'
cowboy--the real thing--same as it was in the early days. The
ranchers in Texas an' some in Arizona hev took on style,
new-fangled idees thet are good, an' I wish we could follow them.
But we've got to stick to the old-fashioned, open-range
round-up. It looks cruel to you, I can see thet. Wal, mebbe