"It must have been a bunch of strays we saw—none of them was branded," Lambert said.
"Father never would brand his calves, for various reasons, the humane above all others. I never blamed him after seeing it done once, and I'm not going to take up the barbarous practice now. All other considerations aside, it ruins a hide, you know, Mr. Lambert."
"It seems to me you'd better lose the hide than the calf, Miss Philbrook."
"It does make it easy for thieves, and that's the only argument in favor of branding. While we've—I've got the only white-faced herd in this country, I can't go into court and prove my property without a brand, once the cattle are run outside of this fence. So they come in and take them, knowing they're safe unless they're caught."
Lambert fell silent again. The ranchhouse was in sight, high on its peninsula of prairie, like a lighthouse seen from sea.
"It's a shame to let that fine herd waste away like that," he said, ruminatively, as if speaking to himself.
"It's always been hard to get help here; cowboys seem to think it's a disgrace to ride fence. Such as we've been able to get nearly always turned out thieves on their own account in the end. The one out with the cattle now is a farm boy from Iowa, afraid of his shadow."
"They didn't want no fence in here in the first place—that's what set their teeth ag'in' you," Taterleg said.
"If I could only get some real men once," she sighed; "men who could handle them like you boys did this morning. Even father never seemed to understand where to take hold of them to hurt them, the way you do."
They were near the house now. Lambert rode on a little way in silence. Then: