“It’s mighty close to a cattle war,” said one old lean and leathery individual to Bob; “I know, for I been thar.  Used to run cows in Montana.  I hear everywhar talk about Wright’s cattle dyin’ in mighty funny ways.  I know that’s so, for I seen a slather of dead cows myself.  Some of ’em fall off cliffs; some seem to have broke their legs.  Some bogged down.  Some look like to have just laid down and died.”

“Well, if they’re weak from loss of feed, isn’t that natural?” asked Bob.

“Wall,” said the old cowman, “in the first place, they’re pore, but they ain’t by no means weak.  But the strange part is that these yere accidents always happens to Wright’s cattle.”

He laughed and added: 

“The carcasses is always so chawed up by b’ar and coyote—­or at least that’s what they say done it—­that you can’t sw’ar as to how they did come to die.  But I heard one funny thing.  It was over at the Pollock boys’ camp.  Shelby, Wright’s straw boss, come ridin’ in pretty mad, and made a talk about how it’s mighty cur’ous only Wright’s cattle is dyin’.

“‘It shorely looks like the country is unhealthy for plains cattle,’ says George Pollock; ‘ours is brought up in the hills.’

“‘Well,’ says Shelby, ’if I ever comes on one of these accidents a-happenin’, I’ll shore make some one hard to catch!’

“’Some one’s likely one of these times to make you almighty easy to catch!’ says George.

“Now,” concluded the old cattleman, “folks don’t make them bluffs for the sake of talkin’ at a mark—­not in this country.”

Nevertheless, in spite of that prediction, the summer passed without any personal clash.  The cattle came out from the mountains rather earlier than usual, gaunt, wiry, active.  They were in fine shape, as far as health was concerned; but absolutely unfit, as they then stood, for beef.  The Simeon Wright herds were first, thousands of them, in charge of many cowboys and dogs.  The punchers were a reckless, joyous crew, skylarking in anticipation of the towns of the plains.  They kissed their hands and waved their hats at all women, old and young, in the mill settlement; they played pranks on each other; they charged here and there on their wiry ponies, whirling to right and left, ’turning on a ten-cent piece,’ throwing their animals from full speed to a stand, indulging in the cowboys’ spectacular ‘flash riding’ for the sheer joy of it.  The leading cattle, eager with that strange instinct that, even early in the fall, calls all ruminants from good mountain feed to the brown lower country, pressed forward, their necks outstretched, their eyes fixed on some distant vision.  Their calls blended into an organ note.  Occasionally they broke into a little trot.  At such times the dogs ran forward, yelping, to turn them back into their appointed way.  At an especially bad break to right or left one or more of the men would dash to the aid of the dogs, riding with a splendid