Long before they reached the scene of the round-up they could hear the almost continual bawl of worried cattle, and could even see the cloud of dust they stirred.  They passed the remuda, in charge of two lads lounging sleepily in their saddles with only an occasional glance at the bunch of grazing horses they were watching.  Presently they looked down from a high ridge at the busy scene below.

Out of Lost Valley ran a hundred rough and wooded gulches to the impassable cliff wall which bounded it.  Into one of these they now descended slowly, letting their ponies pick a way among the loose stones and shale which covered the steep hillside.

What their eyes fell upon was cattle-land at its busiest.  Several hundred wild hill cattle were gathered in the green draw, and around them was a cordon of riders holding the gather steady.  Now and again one of the cows would make a dash to escape, and instantly the nearest rider would wheel, as on a batter’s plate, give chase, and herd the animal back after a more or less lengthy pursuit.

Several of the riders were cutting out from the main herd cows with unmarked calves, which last were immediately roped and thrown.  Usually it took only an instant to determine with whose cow the calf had been, and a few seconds to drive home the correct brand upon the sizzling flank.  Occasionally the discussion was more protracted, in order to solve a doubt as to the ownership, and once a calf was released that it might again seek its mother to prove identity.

Arlie observed that Fraser’s eyes were shining.

“I used to be a puncher myse’f,” he explained.  “I tell you it feels good to grip a saddle between your knees, and to swallow the dust and hear the bellow of the cows.  I used to live in them days.  I sure did.”

A boyish puncher galloped past with a whoop and waved his hat to Arlie.  For two weeks he had been in the saddle for fourteen hours out of the twenty-four.  He was grimy with dust, and hollow-eyed from want of sleep.  A stubbly beard covered his brick-baked face.  But the unquenchable gayety of the youthful West could not be extinguished.  Though his flannel shirt gaped where the thorns had torn it, and the polka-dot bandanna round his throat was discolored with sweat, he was as blithely debonair as ever.

“That’s Dick France.  He’s a great friend of mine,” Arlie explained.

“Dick’s in luck,” Fraser commented, but whether because he was enjoying himself so thoroughly or because he was her friend the ranger did not explain.

They stayed through the day, and ate dinner at the tail of the chuck wagon with the cattlemen.  The light of the camp fires, already blazing in the nipping night air, shone brightly.  The ranger rode back with her to the ranch, but next morning he asked Arlie if she could lend him an old pair of chaps discarded by her father.

She found a pair for him.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll ride out to the round-up and stay with the boys a few days,” he suggested.