The line-back calf kept close to his mother’s side, and as long as possible avoided the ropers.  But in an unguarded moment the noose of a rope encircled one of his hind feet, and he was thrown upon his side, and in this position the mounted man dragged him up to the fire.  His mother followed him closely, but she was afraid of the men, and could only stand at a distance and listen to his piteous crying.  The roper, when asked for the brand, replied, “Bar-circle-bar,” for that was the brand his mother bore.  A tall quiet man who did the branding called to a boy who attended the fire to bring him two irons; with one he stamped the circle, and with the other he made a short horizontal bar on either side of it.  Then he took a bloody knife from between his teeth and cut an under-bit from the calf’s right ear, inquiring of the owner as he did so, “Do you want this calf left for a bull?”

“No; yearlings will be worth fourteen dollars next spring.  He’s a first calf—­his mother’s only a three-year-old.”

As he was released he edged away from the fire, forlorn looking.  His mother coaxed him over into a corner of the corral, where he dropped exhausted, for with his bleeding ear, his seared side, and a hundred shooting pains in his loins, he felt as if he must surely die.  His dam, however, stood over him until the day’s work was ended, and kept the other cows from trampling him.  When the gates were thrown open and they were given their freedom, he cared nothing for it; he wanted to die.  He did not attempt to leave the corral until after darkness had settled over the scene.  Then with much persuasion he arose and limped along after his mother.  But before he could reach the river, which was at least half a mile away, he sank down exhausted.  If he could only slake his terrible thirst he felt he might possibly survive, for the pain had eased somewhat.  With every passing breeze of the night he could scent the water, and several times in his feverish fancy he imagined he could hear it as it gurgled over its pebbly bed.

Just at sunrise, ere the heat of the day fell upon him, he struggled to his feet, for he felt it was a matter of life and death with him to reach the river.  At last he dragged his pain-racked body down to the rippling water and lowered his head to drink, but it seemed as if every exertion tended to reopen those seared scars, and with the one thing before him that he most desired, he moaned in misery.  A little farther away was a deep pool.  This he managed to crawl to, and there he remained for a long time, for the water laved his wounds, and he drank and drank.  The sun now beat down on him fiercely, and he must seek some shady place for the day, but he started reluctantly to leave, and when he reached the shallows, he turned back to the comfort of the pool and drank again.