Sage-brush grinned and slowly arose, gathering up his saddle and rope.
Swinging one over each arm, he started toward the corral, saying: "Come on, boys, we got a lot to do to-day. Git your hosses."
The night riders, were coming into camp greeting their comrades with grunts, or in a few words telling them what to guard against in some particular part of the grazing herd.
The sun had risen. The cattle were on their feet browsing the short, sweet grass, moving slowly toward the river.
"Work," growled Show Low, "darn me if I ain't commenced to hate it."
Fresno picked up his saddle to follow his foreman, but paused long enough to fire this parting shot at the cook: "Say, Parenthesis, if them biscuits you're makin' is as hard as the last bunch, save four of 'em for me. I want to shoe that pony of mine."
Parenthesis threw a tin cup at Fresno, who dodged it. Punching the dough viciously, he said: "Darn this housekeepin'. Gets a feller's hands all rough,—it's enough to spile the disposition of a saint."
His soliloquy was interrupted by Buck McKee riding up to the wagon from Lazy K outfit, which was camping a mile below them.
"Hello, Cookie! How goes it?" was his greeting.
"You wind it up, and it goes eight days." Parenthesis bellowed, his temper fast reaching the breaking-point.