When the real thing happened--the "calf round-up"--and thirty riders in
white felt hats, chaps, spurs a-jingle, and handkerchief ends flying out
in the wind, lined up of a morning for orders, the blood of me went
a-jump, and my nerves were all tingly with the pure joy of being alive and
atop a horse as eager as hounds in the leash and with the wind of the
plains in my face and the grass-land lying all around, yelling come on,
and the meadowlarks singing fit to split their throats. There's nothing
like it--and I've tried nearly everything in the way of blood-tinglers.
Skimming through the waves, alean to the wind in a racing-yacht, comes
nearest, and even that takes second money when circle-riding on round-up
is entered in the race. But this is getting away from my story.

We were working the country just north of White Divide, when the foreman
started me home with a message for Perry Potter--and I was to get back as
soon as possible with the answer. Now, here's where I got gay.

As I said, we were north of White Divide, and the home ranch was south,
and to go around either end of that string of hills meant an extra sixty
miles to cover each way--a hundred and twenty for the round trip. Directly
in the way of the proverbial crow's flight lay King's Highway, which--if
I got through--would put me at the ranch the first day, and back at camp
the second; and I rather guessed that would surprise our worthy foreman
not a little. I didn't see why it couldn't be done; surely old King
wouldn't murder a man just for riding through that pass--that would be
bloody-minded indeed!

And if I failed--why, I could go around, and no one would be wise to the
fact that I had tried it. I headed straight for the pass, which yawned
invitingly, with two bare peaks for the jaws, not over six miles away.
It was against orders, for Perry Potter had given the boys to understand