more vicious flourished openly, and around them gathered the
scum and the flotsam that crests a rising tide.

Winter brought the rains, and existence in the new fields became
an ugly and a troublesome thing. Roads there were none, and
supplies became difficult to secure. The surface of the land
melted and spinning wheels churned it; traffic halted, vehicles
sank, horses drowned. Between rains the sun dried the mud, the
wind whirled it into suffocating clouds. Sandstorms swept over the
miserable inhabitants; tornadoes, thick with a burden of cutting
particles, harried them until they cursed the fate that had
brought them thither.

But in Wichita Falls, where there was shelter overhead and
pavements underfoot, the sheep shearing proceeded gayly.

Of the men engaged in this shearing business, none, perhaps, had
gathered more wool in the same length of time than the two members
of the firm of McWade & Stoner. Mr. Billy McWade, junior partner,
was a man of wide experience and some accomplishments, but until
his arrival at Wichita Falls he had never made a conspicuous
success of any business enterprise. The unforeseen invariably had
intervened to prevent a killing. Either a pal had squealed, or the
postal authorities had investigated, or a horse had fallen
--anyhow, whenever victory had perched upon his banner something
always had happened to frighten the bird before its wings were
fairly folded.

Mr. McWade had finally determined to wipe off the slate and
commence all over. Accordingly, he had selected a new field, and,