A fortnight of fine weather followed.  The herd was given almost absolute freedom, scattering for miles during the day, and only thrown together at nightfall.  Even then, as the cattle grazed entirely by day, a mile square of dry slope was considered compact enough for the night.  The extra horses, which had ranged for the winter around Hackberry Grove, were seen only occasionally and their condition noted.  The winter had haired them like llamas, the sleet had worked no hardship, as a horse paws to the grass, and any concern for the outside saddle stock was needless.

The promise of spring almost disarmed the boys.  Dell was anxious to know the value of the bales of peltry, and constantly urged his brother for permission to ride to the railroad and inquire.

“What’s your hurry?” was Joel’s rejoinder.  “I haven’t shouted yet.  I’m not sure that we’re out of the woods.  Let’s win for sure first.”

“But we ought to write to Mr. Paul and Mr. Quince,” urged the younger boy, by way of a double excuse.  “There may be a letter from them at Grinnell now.  Let’s write to our friends in Texas and tell them that we’ve won the fight.  The spring’s here.”

“You can go to the station later,” replied Joel.  “The fur will keep, and we may have quite a spell of winter yet.  Don’t you remember the old weather proverb, of March coming in like a lion and going out like a lamb?  This one came in like a lamb, and we had better keep an eye on it for fear it goes out like a lion.  You can go to the railroad in April.”

There was wisdom in Joel’s random advice.  As yet there was no response in the earth to the sun’s warmth.  The grass was timid and refused to come forth, and only a few foolish crows had reached the shrub and willow along the Beaver, while the absence of other signs of spring carried a warning that the wintry elements might yet arise and roar like a young lion.

The one advantage of the passing days was the general improvement in the herd.  The instinct of the cattle led them to the buffalo grass, which grew on the slopes and divides, and with three weeks of fair weather and full freedom the herd as a whole rounded into form, reflecting its tenacity of life and the able handling of its owners.

Within ten days of the close of the month, the weakened lines of intrenchment were again assaulted.  The herd was grazing westward, along the first divide south of the Beaver, when a squall struck near the middle of the afternoon.  It came without warning, and found the cattle scattered to the limits of loose herding, but under the eyes of two alert horsemen.  Their mounts responded to the task, circling the herd on different sides, but before it could be thrown into mobile form and pointed into the Beaver valley, a swirl of soft snow enveloped horses and riders, cattle and landscape.  The herd turned its back to the storm, and took up the steady, sullen march of a winter drift.  Cut off from the corral by fully five miles, the emergency of the hour must be met, and the brothers rode to dispute the progress of the drifting cattle.