town in Colorado.

He had reached Albuquerque by a strange and devious route of zigzags and
back-trackings. His weary bronco he had long since sold for ten dollars
at a cow town where he had sacked his saddle to be held at a livery
stable until sent for. By blind baggage he had ridden a night and part of
a day. For a hundred miles he had actually paid his fare. The next leg of
the journey had been more exciting. He had elected to travel by freight.
For many hours he and a husky brakeman had held different opinions about
this. Dave had been chased from the rods into an empty and out of the box
car to the roof. He had been ditched half a dozen times during the night,
but each time he had managed to hook on before the train had gathered
headway. The brakeman enlisted the rest of the crew in the hunt, with the
result that the range-rider found himself stranded on the desert ten
miles from a station. He walked the ties in his high-heeled boots, and
before he reached the yards his feet were sending messages of pain at
every step. Reluctantly he bought a ticket to Albuquerque. Here he had
picked up a temporary job ten minutes after his arrival.

A raw-boned inspector kept tally at the chute while the cattle passed up
into the car.

"Fifteen, sixteen--prod 'em up, you Arizona--seventeen, eighteen--jab
that whiteface along--nineteen--hustle 'em in."

The air was heavy with the dust raised by the milling cattle. Calves
stretched their necks and blatted for their mothers, which kept up in
turn a steady bawling for their strayed offspring. They were conscious
that something unusual was in progress, something that threatened their
security and comfort, and they resented it in the only way they knew.