recklessness through the timber, over fallen trees, ditches, rocks, boulders and precipitous hills.  The dust rose chokingly.  At the rear of the long procession plodded the old, the infirm, the cripples and the young calves.  Three or four men rode compactly behind this rear guard, urging it to keep up.  Their means of persuasion were varied.  Quirts, ropes, rattles made of tin cans and pebbles, strong language were all used in turn and simultaneously.  Long after the multitude had passed, the vast and composite voice of it reechoed through the forest; the dust eddied and swirled among the trees.

The mountain men’s cattle, on the other hand, came out sullenly, in herds of a few hundred head.  There was more barking of dogs; more scurrying to and fro of mounted men, for small bands are more difficult to drive than large ones.  There were no songs, no boisterous high spirits, no flash riding.  In contrast to the plains cowboys, even the herders’ appearance was poor.  They wore blue jeans overalls, short jeans jumpers, hats floppy and all but disintegrated by age and exposure to the elements.  Wright’s men, being nothing but cowboys, without other profession, ties or interests, gave more attention to details of professional equipment.  Their wide hats were straight of brim and generally encircled by a leather or hair or snakeskin band; their shirts were loose; they wore handkerchiefs around their necks, and oiled leather “chaps” on their legs.  Their distinguishing and especial mark, however, was their boots.  These were made of soft leather, were elaborately stitched or embroidered in patterns, possessed exaggeratedly wide and long straps like a spaniel’s ears, and were mounted on thin soles and very high heels.  They were footwear such as no mountain man, nor indeed any man who might ever be required to go a mile afoot, would think of wearing.  The little herds trudged down the mountains.  While the plainsmen anticipated easy duty, the pleasures of the town, fenced cattle growing fat on alfalfa raised during the summer by irrigation, these sober-faced mountaineers looked forward to a winter range much depleted, a market closed against such wiry, active animals as they herded, and an impossibility of rounding into shape for sale any but a few old cows.

“If it wasn’t for this new shake-up,” said Jim Pollock, “I’d shore be gettin’ discouraged.  But if they keep out Simeon Wright’s cattle this spring, we’ll be all right.  It’s cost us money, though.”

“A man with a wife and child can’t afford to lose money,” said George Pollock.

Jim laughed.

“You and your new kid!” he mocked.  “No, I suppose he can’t.  Neither can a man with a wife and six children.  But I reckon we’ll be all right as long as there’s a place to crawl under when it rains.”

XVII