such a part in days past.

Expertly the riders threw the cattle back to the mesa and moved them
forward. Among the bunch one could find the T Anchor brand, the Circle
Cross, the Diamond Tail, and the X-Z, scattered among the cows burned
with the D Bar Lazy R, which was the original brand of the owner,
Emerson Crawford.

The sun rose and filled the sky. In a heavy cloud of dust the cattle
trailed steadily toward the distant hills.

Near noon Buck, passing Dave where he rode as drag driver in the wake of
the herd, shouted a greeting at the young man. "Tur'ble hot. I'm spittin'
cotton."

Dave nodded. His eyes were red and sore from the alkali dust, his throat
dry as a lime kiln. "You done, said it, Buck. Hotter 'n hell or Yuma."

"Dug says for us to throw off at Seven-Mile Hole."

"I won't make no holler at that."

The herd leaders, reading the signs of a spring close at hand, quickened
the pace. With necks outstretched, bawling loudly, they hurried forward.
Forty-eight hours ago they had last satisfied their thirst. Usually Doble
watered each noon, but the desert yesterday had been dry as Sahara. Only
such moisture was available as could be found in black grama and needle
grass.

The point of the herd swung in toward the cottonwoods that straggled down