It was one of the many round-ups on the Bar U range, and there was work for all, more than enough.
"Hi there, Gimp! Watch where yo-all are a-ridin'!"
"Swing him over there! I'll handle that critter!"
"What's the matter with your fire? Can't git no kind of an impression with irons as cold as a chunk of ice!"
"Look out for that cayuse! He's shore a bad 'un!"
"Over this way now!"
"That's talkin'!"
This was only some of the talk, part of the shouts, a few of the yells that were bandied back and forth, as the cowboys rounded up the herd, cut out the designated steers or cows, branded the new ones that had never yet felt the touch of the hot iron, and generally did the work that falls to every ranch at certain times of the year.
Dave had been among the busiest, now roping some refractory steer, now helping a cowboy heat the big irons, with their mark "Bar U.", now scudding out of the way on the back of his fleet pony, Crow. Now finding a moment of respite, he galloped up to where Mr. Bellmore was sitting in the shade of the chuck wagon, as the cooking outfit is known.
"Well, what do you think of it?" asked the young cowboy, as he pulled his horse back sharply, so that Crow reared. But he was used to that, and Dave was exceptionally gentle with him.