A week after the burial of the Pollock baby, Mrs. Pollock was reported seriously ill.  Bob rode up a number of times to inquire, and kept himself fully informed.  The doctor came twice from White Oaks, but then ceased his visits.  Bob did not know that such visits cost fifty dollars apiece.  Mary, Jim’s wife, shared the care of the sick woman with George.  She was reported very weak, but getting on.  The baby’s death, together with the other anxieties of the last two years, had naturally pulled her down.

XX

Before the gray dawn one Sunday morning Bob, happening to awaken, heard a strange, rumbling, distant sound to the west.  His first thought was that the power dam had been opened and was discharging its waters, but as his senses came to him, he realized that this could not be so.  He stretched himself idly.  A mocking bird uttered a phrase outside.  No dregs of drowsiness remained in him, so he dressed and walked out into the freshness of the new morning.  Here the rumbling sound, which he had concluded had been an effect of his half-conscious imagination, came clearer to his ears.  He listened for a moment, then walked rapidly to the Lone Pine Hill from whose slight elevation he could see abroad over the low mountains to the west.  The gray light before sunrise was now strengthening every moment.  By the time Bob had reached the summit of the knoll it had illuminated the world.

A wandering suction of air toward the higher peaks brought with it the murmur of a multitude.  Bob topped the hill and turned his eyes to the west.  A great cloud of dust arose from among the chaparral and oaks, drifting slowly but certainly toward the Ranges.  Bob could now make out the bawling, shouting, lowing of great herds on the march.  In spite of pledges and promises, in spite of California John’s reports, of Thorne’s recommendations, of Plant’s assurances, Simeon Wright’s cattle were again coming in!

Bob shook his head sadly, and his clear-cut young face was grave.  No one knew better than himself what this must mean to the mountain people, for his late spring and early fall work had brought him much in contact with them.  He walked thoughtfully down the hill.

When just on the outskirts of the little village he was overtaken by George Pollock on horseback.  The mountaineer was jogging along at a foot pace, his spurs jingling, his bridle hand high after the Western fashion.  When he saw Bob he reined in, nodding a good morning.  Bob noticed that he had strapped on a blanket and slicker, and wore his six-shooter.

“You look as though you were going on a journey,” remarked Bob.

“Thinking of it,” said Pollock.  Bob glanced up quickly at the tone of his voice, which somehow grated unusually on the young man’s ear, but the mountaineer’s face was placid under the brim of his floppy old hat.  “Might as well,” continued the cattleman after a moment.  “Nothin’ special to keep me.”