“It was a big round-up, Kane,” said Mrs. Lawler, watching the herd.

“Eight thousand head,” Lawler replied.  “We’re starting a thousand toward Willets today.”

“Have you seen Gary Warden?  I mean, have you arranged with Warden to have him take the cattle?”

Lawler smiled.  “I had an agreement with Jim Lefingwell.  We made it early last spring.”

“A written agreement?”

“Shucks—­no.  I never had a written agreement with Lefingwell.  Never had to.  Jim’s word was all I ever wanted from him—­all I ever asked for.”

“But perhaps Gary Warden’s business methods are different?”

“I talked that over with Lefingwell when he sold out to Warden.  Jim said he’d already mentioned our agreement to Warden and that Warden had agreed to carry it out.”

“But suppose Warden has changed his mind?”

Lawler spoke seriously.  “No man goes back on his word in this country.  But from what I’ve heard of Warden, he’s likely to.  If he does, we’ll drive the stock to Keppler, at Red Rock.  Keppler isn’t buying for the same concern, but he’ll pay what Lefingwell agreed to pay.  We’ll ship them, don’t worry.”

“Red Rock means a five hundred mile drive, Kane.”

Lawler replied, “You’re anticipating, Mother.  Warden will take them.”

Lawler grinned and stepped off the gallery.  A few minutes later he emerged from the stable carrying a saddle, which he flung over one of the top rails of the corral fence.  He roped a big, red bay, smooth, with a glossy coat that shone like a flame in the clear white light of the morning sun.

The bay was built on heroic lines.  He was tall and rangy, and the spirit of a long line of thoroughbred ancestors was in him.  It showed in the clear white of his gleaming, indomitable eyes, in his thin, sensitive nostrils and long, shapely muzzle; in the contour of his head and chest, and in his slender, sinewy legs.

Man and horse were big, capable, strong-willed.  They were equipped for life in the grim, wild country that surrounded them.  From the slender, powerful limbs of the big bay, to the cartridge-studded belt that encircled the man’s middle, with a heavy pistol at the right hip, they seemed to typify the ruggedness of the country, seemed to embody the spirit of the Wild.

Lawler mounted, and the big bay whistled as he pranced across the ranchhouse yard to the big corral where the cattle were confined.  Lawler brought the bay to a halt at a corner of the corral fence, where his foreman, Blackburn, who had been breakfasting in the messhouse, advanced to meet him, having seen Lawler step down from the gallery.

Blackburn was of medium height, swarthy, with heavy brows under which were keen, deep-set eyes.  His mouth was big, expressive, with a slightly cynical set in repose.

“We’re hittin’ the trail in about an hour,” said Blackburn.  “Are you wantin’ me to put ’em through, or are we takin’ two days to it, as usual?”