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?"

"Not yet." John continued to stare intently. Others noticed his posture