Several of the buyers had brought their own cow-punchers with them, and these went to work cutting out the selections of their employers.
The sky was thick with dust, and the air rang with the shouts of the cowboys and the lowing and bellowing of the cattle.
The rattle of countless hoofs on the hard soil added to the din, and the cattle weaving in and out ceaselessly, and the dashing riding of the cowboys as they swooped out of the mass occasionally to drive back an escaping steer, made a scene of excitement, movement, and noise never seen anywhere, except at a Western cattle round-up and cut-out.
Soon the work was pretty well in hand, and, leaving Bud Morgan as segundo, Ted went to the house to see the marshal.
He found that officer sitting on the veranda, quietly smoking a cigar, an interested witness of the proceedings.
"How are you, Mr. Easton?" said Ted, shaking hands with the marshal. "I must apologize for not coming sooner, but my hands were full."
"So I see," said the marshal cordially. "I was watching you work out there. Say, I believe I'd like to be a cow-puncher if I wasn't so old."
"It's a young man's job," said Ted, laughing; "and even at that it is about all a young fellow can stand at times. But this to-day is a mere picnic to what we are up against sometimes."
"Well, you seem to be right in it."
"Yes, I love my business. I wouldn't be anything in the world except a cow-puncher."