Through King's Highway.


It was a long time before I was in a position to gratify my curiosity,
though; between the son and heir, with nothing to do but amuse himself,
and a cowboy working for his daily wage, there is a great gulf fixed.
After being put on the pay-roll, I couldn't do just as my fancy prompted.
I had to get up at an ungodly hour, and eat breakfast in about two
minutes, and saddle a horse and "ride circle" with the rest of them--which
same is exceeding wearisome to man and beast. For the first time since I
left school, I was under orders; and the foreman certainly tried to obey
dad's mandate and treat me just as he would have treated any other
stranger. I could give it up, of course--but I hope never to see the day
when I can be justly called a quitter.

First, we were rounding up horses--saddlers that were to be ridden in the
round-up proper. We were not more than two or three weeks at that, though
we covered a good deal of country. Before it was over I knew a lot more
than when we started out, and had got hard as nails; riding on round-up
beats a gym for putting wire muscles under a man's skin, in my opinion.
We worked all around White Divide--which was turning a pale, dainty green
except where the sandstone cliffs stood up in all the shades of yellow and
red. Montana, as viewed on "horse round-up," looks better than in the
first bleak days of March, and I could gaze upon it without profanity.
I even got to like tearing over the newborn grass on a good horse, with
a cowboy or two galloping, keen-faced and calm, beside me. It was almost
better than slithering along a hard road with a motor-car stripped to the
running-gear.