Yellow-throated meadow larks perched swaying in the top of gray sage bushes and sang to him that the world was good.
Sober gray curlews circled over his head, their long, funny bills thrust out straight as if to point the way for their bodies to follow and cried, "Kor-r-eck, kor-r-eck!"-- which means just what the meadow larks sang.

So Thurston, hearing it all about him, seeing it and smelling it and feeling the riot of Spring in his blood, straightened the hunch out of his shoulders and admitted that it was all true: that the world was good.
At Miles City he found himself in the midst of a small army, the regulars of the range---which grew hourly larger as the outfits rolled in.

The rattle of mess-wagons, driven by the camp cook and followed by the bed-wagon, was heard from all directions.

Jingling cavvies (herds of saddle horses they were, driven and watched over by the horse wrangler) came out of the wilderness in the wake of the wagons.

Thurston got out his camera and took pictures of the scene.