“Ugh-huh!” grunted Dig. “But didn’t they stop to graze? Why, according to this trail, the cattle went right through the finest kind of grass without taking a bite.”
“This was a big herd,” said Chet, eying the cut-up sod seriously. “But, of course, they grazed. The way they did it when father and I travelled with them was this: An hour before noon one of the point men whistled and the whole column of beeves turned aside and went to grazing. They called it ‘throwing the herd off the trail to graze.’”
“Great!” exclaimed his chum.
“When it was time to start on, the men gathered them, got them headed right, and all settled into the trail again.”
“But how about the nights, Chet?” inquired Digby. “How could eleven men handle such a large herd?”
“Why,” said Chet, “they threw the herd off the trail to graze and to water just the same. The men were divided into watches, something like the watches at sea. Those on watch rode around and around the herd. If the cattle were uneasy they sang.”
Dig chuckled. “Sang what?” he asked. “‘Rock-a-bye-baby’ and the like?”
“No,” laughed Chet. “One fellow didn’t know anything but ‘Beulah Land’—and after you’ve heard it sung a thousand times, you get tired of it. The regular cattle-herding songs have hundreds of verses to them; but the tunes get monotonous, too, after a while.”
“I should think so!” ejaculated Digby. “D’you know, I thought cattle herding was more boisterous.”
“You’ve driven cows to pasture, haven’t you?”