frozen blood, Jones munched another biscuit. Five men crawled
from under the wagon, and made an unfruitful search for the
whisky. Fearing it, Jones had thrown the bottle away. The men
cursed. The patient horses drooped sadly, and shivered in the lee
of the improvised tent. Jones kicked the inch-thick casing of ice
from his saddle. Kentuck, his racer, had been spared on the whole
trip for this day's work. The thoroughbred was cold, but as Jones
threw the saddle over him, he showed that he knew the chase
ahead, and was eager to be off. At last, after repeated efforts
with his benumbed fingers, Jones got the girths tight. He tied a
bunch of soft cords to the saddle and mounted.

"Follow as fast as you can," he called to his surly men. "The
buffs will run north against the wind. This is the right
direction for us; we'll soon leave the sand. Stick to my trail
and come a-humming."

From the ridge he met the red sun, rising bright, and a keen
northeasterly wind that lashed like a whip. As he had
anticipated, his quarry had moved northward. Kentuck let out into
a swinging stride, which in an hour had the loping herd in sight.
Every jump now took him upon higher ground, where the sand
failed, and the grass grew thicker and began to bend under the
wind.

In the teeth of the nipping gale Jones slipped close upon the
herd without alarming even a cow. More than a hundred little
reddish-black calves leisurely loped in the rear. Kentuck, keen
to his work, crept on like a wolf, and the hunter's great fist
clenched the coiled lasso. Before him expanded a boundless plain.