“It’s a perfect shame!” Rosemary said at last, and her lips were trembling.  “He’s just about crazy—­and I know he hasn’t slept a wink, lately, just from worrying.”

“I calc’late that’s about the how of it,” Applehead agreed, rubbing his chin nervously.  “He lays awful still, last few weeks, and that thar’s a bad sign fer him.  And I ain’t heerd ‘im talkin’ in his sleep lately, either.  Up till lately he made more pitchers asleep than he done awake.  Take it when things was movin’ right along, Mis’ Green, ‘n’ Luck was shore talkative, now I’m tellin’ yuh!”

“My father, he got one oncle,” Annie-Many-Ponies spoke up unexpectedly from her favorite corner.  “Big Medicine man.  Maybe I write one letter, maybe Noisy-Owl he come, make plenty storm.  Noisy-Owl, he got awful strong medicine for make storm come.”

“Well, by cripes, yuh better send for ’im then!” Big Medicine advised gruffly, and went out.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE STORM

The Phantom Herd, as the days slipped nearer and nearer to April, might almost have been christened The Forlorn Hope.  On the twenty-first the sun was so hot that Luck rode in his shirt sleeves to Albuquerque, stubbornly intending to order more “positive” for his prints in the final work of putting his Big Picture into marketable form.  He did not have the slightest idea of where the money to pay for the stuff was coming from, but he sent the letter ordering the stock sent C.O.D.  He was playing for big results, and he had no intention of being balked at the last minute because of his timidity in assuming an ultimate success which was beginning to look extremely doubtful.

On the twenty-second, a lark flew impudently past his head and perched upon a bush near by and sang straight at him.  As a general thing Luck loved to hear bird songs when he rode abroad on a fine morning; but he came very near taking a shot at that particular lark, as if it were personally responsible for the sunny days that had brought it out scouting ahead of its kind.

On the twenty-third the sky was a brassy blue, and Applehead won Luck’s fierce enmity by remarking that he “calc’lated he’d better get his garden in.”  Luck went away off somewhere on the snuffy little bay, that day, and did not return until after dark.

On the twenty-fourth he took the boys away back on the mesa, where the mountains shoulder the plain, and scattered them on a wide circle, rounding up the cattle that had been permitted to drift where they would in their famished search for the scant grass-growth.  Bill Holmes and the camera followed him in the buckboard with the lunch, and Luck, when the boys had met with their gleanings, “shot” two or three short scenes of poor cows and their early calves, which would go to help along his range “atmosphere.”  To the Happy Family it seemed a waste of horseflesh to comb a twenty-mile radius of mesa to get a cow and calf which might have been duplicated within a mile of the ranch.  The Happy Family knew that Luck was wading chin deep in the slough of despond, and they decided that he kept them riding all day just for pure cussedness.