he stopped he addressed as Mendenhall, who was his horse-manager as
well as pasture expert, and who was reputed to know, not only every
blade of grass on the ranch, but the length of every blade of grass
and its age from seed-germination as well.

At signal from Forrest, Mendenhall drew up the two colts he was
driving in a double breaking-cart. What had caused Forrest to signal
was a glance he had caught, across the northern edge of the valley, of
great, smooth-hill ranges miles beyond, touched by the sun and deeply
green where they projected into the vast flat of the Sacramento
Valley.

The talk that followed was quick and abbreviated to terms of
understanding between two men who knew. Grass was the subject. Mention
was made of the winter rainfall and of the chance for late spring
rains to come. Names occurred, such as the Little Coyote and Los
Cuatos creeks, the Yolo and the Miramar hills, the Big Basin, Round
Valley, and the San Anselmo and Los Banos ranges. Movements of herds
and droves, past, present, and to come, were discussed, as well as the
outlook for cultivated hay in far upland pastures and the estimates of
such hay that still remained over the winter in remote barns in the
sheltered mountain valleys where herds had wintered and been fed.

Under the oaks, at the stamping posts, Forrest was saved the trouble
of tying the Man-Eater. A stableman came on the run to take the mare,
and Forrest, scarce pausing for a word about a horse by the name of
Duddy, was clanking his spurs into the Big House.