lengthened and flowed, a sluggish, brown-red stream, into the coulee and
across to Quitter Creek.

Here the leaders were browsing greedily along the banks. They had emptied
the few holes that had still held a meager store of brackish water and so
the mutinous bulk of the herd snuffed at the trampled, muddy spots and
bellowed their disappointment.

Wooden Shoes rode up and surveyed the half maddened animals gloomily. "Push
'em on, boys," he said. "They's nothings for 'em here. I've sent the wagons
on to Red Willow; we'll try that next. Push 'em along all yuh can, while I
go on ahead and see."

With tin-cans, slickers, and much vituperation, they forced the herd up the
coulee side and strung them out again on trail. The line-backed cow walked
and walked in the lead before Pink's querulous gaze, and the others plodded
listlessly after. The gray dust-cloud formed anew over their slowmoving
backs, and the cowboys humped over in their saddles and rode and rode, with
the hot sun beating aslant in their dirt-grimed faces, and with the wind
blowing and blowing.

If this had been the first herd to make that dreary trip, things would not
have been quite so disheartening. But it was the third. Seven thousand lean
kine had passed that way before them, eating the scant grass growth and
drinking what water they could find among those barren, sun-baked coulees.

The Cross L boys, on this third trip, were become a jaded lot of
hollow-eyed men, whose nerves were rasped raw with long hours and longer
days in the saddle. Pink's cheeks no longer made his name appropriate, and
he was not the only one who grew fretful over small things. Rowdy had been