doing any stunts at sprinting up-hill. Ain't yuh got any nerves, yuh blamed
old skate? Yuh act like it was milkin'-time, and yuh was headed straight for
the bars and a bran mash. Can't yuh realize the kind uh deal you're up
against? Here's cattle that's got you skinned for looks, old girl, and they
know it's coming blamed tough; and you just bat your eyes and peg along
like yuh enjoyed it. Bawl, or something, can't yuh? Drop back a foot and act
human!"

The Silent One looked across at him with a tired smile. "Let her go, Pink,
and pray for more like her," he called amusedly. "There'll be enough of them
dropping back presently."

Pink threw one leg over the horn and rode sidewise, made him a cigarette,
and tried to forget the cow--or, at least, to forgive her for not acting as
dog-tired as he felt.

They were on the very peak of the ridge now, and the hill sloped smoothly
down before them to the bluff which bounded Quitter Creek. Far down, a tiny
black speck in the coulee-bottom, they could see Wooden Shoes riding along
the creek-bank, scouting for water. From the way he rode, and from the fact
that camp was nowhere in sight, Pink guessed shrewdly that his quest was in
vain. He shrugged his shoulders at what that meant, and gave his attention
to the herd.

The marching line split at the brow of the bluff. The line-backed cow
lowered her head a bit and went unfaltering down the parched, gravel-coated
hill, followed by a few hundred of the freshest. Then the stream stopped
flowing, and Pink and the Silent One rode back up the bluff to where the
bulk of the footsore herd, their senses dulled by hunger and weariness and
choking thirst, sniffed at the gravel that promised agony to their bruised