The two were up early the next morning and off with the herd before the rest of the family were fairly through breakfast. Sherm was going in with the others to church. Annie had put up a lunch for Ernest and Jane; they did not expect to get back to the house until late afternoon.
The day was an August masterpiece, warm, but not too warm, with a fresh breeze blowing and shreds of blue haze lingering over the timber along the creek.
“It has almost a fall feel,” said Chicken Little.
248A brisk half-hour’s work, in which Huz and Buz took an active part, hindering rather more than helping in the cattle driving, was sufficient to transfer the herd from the pasture to the stubble field. Chicken Little was thankful she had discarded her skirt, for they had many a chase after refractory animals through the timber and underbrush. Calico and Caliph, being mustangs, seemed to enjoy the sport as much as their riders.
“Cricky, Caliph is almost human when it comes to heading off a steer, and he’s never done much cattle driving either. He must have inherited the range instinct.”
“Humph, what about Calico?” retorted Jane. “He turned that roan Father always says is so mean, three times.”
The cattle scattered over the stubble eagerly. Ernest picketed the ponies so they could graze after their good work and he and Chicken Little threw themselves down under a red bud tree near the edge of the field to rest.
“They won’t stray much till they get their stomachs full,” said Ernest, “and that won’t be before afternoon. I brought a book along–Cooper’s ‘Naval History.’ It’s great, though Father says it’s better romance than history. Do you mind if I read you a bit?”
Chicken Little backed up against a tree and settled 249herself comfortably and they were soon fighting with Paul Jones, so utterly absorbed that the herd had drifted down to the farther end of the field before they realized it. A half dozen adventurous beasts were already disappearing into the timber, apparently headed for the Captain’s cornfield, which lay just beyond the creek.
“The pesky brutes! Why can’t they be content with a good square meal at home?” Ernest hated to be interrupted.