They were up on the cedar ridges of the mountains now, driving down wild steers from the upper pastures, and a woman was as good as a man. Dixie was better than most, for she had ridden those rough mesas before and could drift off a ridge like a blacktail. Her desperate rivalry in the chase fired the hearts of the most malingering, and more than one moss-headed old outlaw found himself outgeneraled and flogged into the herd. And a steer is a steer these days—he is worth as much as a horse.
Every morning as the punchers set out on the long circle Dixie May picked out a man to dare, and several prairie-bred Texans failed to follow her over the rocks. Mounted on the best horses in the remuda, knowing the ways of wild cattle and the lay of the land ahead, she took after the first puff of dust she saw and followed it till she smelled smoke. If her steer turned back, she ran him down and roped him, and if her escort did not show up by that time, she hog-tied her catch and went on. It was a wild, free life, and she threw herself into it recklessly, glorying in the unholy joy of beating them at their own game. She rode with Brigham, and Hardy Atkins; uncouth mountain men, and raw-boned nester kids; and finally, when the time was ripe, she picked out Bowles.
Bowles was mounted on his top horse, Wa-ha-lote, and he rode proudly along behind Brigham, for in the rough and tumble of cross-country running he was holding his own with the best. A bunch of wild cattle sprang up suddenly from their hiding place on a far point; for a moment they stood staring, their ears silhouetted against the sky, and the keen eyes of the straw-boss read their earmarks like a book.
"They's two Bat Wing steers in that bunch," he said. "Head 'em off, Bowles, and drive 'em down the cañon!"
Then Bowles leaned forward in his saddle and raced them for the high ground. He headed them, and they doubled to beat him back. Once more he headed them off, while the outfit went on with its circle, and just as they stopped to look him over again he saw a horse coming down on his right. It was Dixie, mounted on her favorite roan, and she motioned to him to swing around on the left. Then the riding began all over again, for the steers were wild as bucks and they knew every trail on the bench; but the shod horses were too fast for them over the rocks, and as their hoofs began to get hot from the friction they turned and dashed for the rim.
From the high ridge where the circle was led, to the bottom cañon where the hold-up herd lay, the land fell away in three benches, each a little narrower, each a little steeper at the jump-off—and Bowles and Dixie Lee went over the first pitch hot-foot on the heels of their quarry. They raced back and forth on the second terrace, trying to head the cattle down a natural trail; but now a wild, self-destroying panic came upon them and they took off over the rough ground.
"I'll dare you to follow me!" cried Dixie, turning her eager roan after them; and helter-skelter over the rough rocks, swinging and ducking under trees and jumping over boulders and bushes, she went spurring after the cattle. Behind her came Bowles, his eyes big with excitement, staring at her madcap riding with the fear of death in his heart. Down over the rough jump-off they went, the dust and smoke from friction-burnt hoofs striking hot in their faces as they rode, and by the grace of God somehow they reached the bench below.
"Don't ride over there!" he entreated, as the cattle scampered on toward the last pitch; but Dixie laughed at him, loud and shrill.
"Will you take a dare?" she taunted, raising her quirt to strike; and before Bowles could say a word, Wa-ha-lote grabbed the bit and went after her like a rocket. Whatever his master thought, it was outside of Wa-ha-lote's simple code to let any horse give him his dust. Wild with terror and excitement, the big steers made straight for the jump-off, which was high and steep; over they went, with Dixie after them, and then, like a bolt from behind, Wa-ha-lote leaped over the rampart and went plowing down the slope. Twice he jumped as he came to dykes of rock, and Bowles stayed with him like a hurdler; then, with a lightning scramble over the loose stones, he took the trail from the roan and went pounding down the hill.
Tree limbs reached down to brush Bowles off, sharp stubs threatened momentarily to snag his legs, and boulders to dash his brains out if he fell, but the lion-hearted Wa-ha-lote had asserted his mastery and Bowles could only hang on. At the bottom of the slide they crashed through a dead-limbed cedar, sending the bone-dry sticks flying in every direction; and when Bowles swung up into the saddle he was thundering across the flat and the steers were at his bits. Vague wisps of smoke, white and smelling like a blacksmith-shop, leaped up as the harried brutes skated over the rocks, and Bowles knew that his battle was won. Once in the soft sand of the creek bed they would never turn back to the heights, for their feet were worn to the quick. But it had been a hard race—even Wa-ha-lote was slowing down, and Dixie Lee was nowhere in sight.