Dinner was soon over, and "Charley," as the cow boss was called by his men, walked out with Mose toward the corral. "Kin ye rope?" he asked.
"No, not for a cent."
"Let him hold the herd foh a day or two," suggested Reynolds. "Give him time to work in."
"All right, s'pose you look after him this afternoon."
Together Reynolds and Mose rode out toward the slowly "milling" herd, a hungry, hot, and restless mob of broadhorns, which required careful treatment. As he approached, the dull roar of their movement, their snuffling and moaning, thrilled the boy. He saw the gleaming, clashing horns of the great animals uplift and mass and change, and it seemed to him there were acres and acres of them.
Reynolds called out to two sweating, dusty, hoarse young fellows: "Go to grub, boys."
Without a word they wheeled their horses and silently withdrew, while Reynolds became as instantly active.
His voice arose to a shout: "Now, lively, Mose, keep an eye on the herd, and if any cow starts to break out—lively now—turn him in."
A big bay steer, lifting his head, suddenly started to leave the herd. Mose spurred his horse straight at him with a yell, and turned him back.
"That's right," shouted Reynolds.