[The Range Dwellers by B. M. Bower]@TWC D-Link book
The Range Dwellers

CHAPTER IV
2/14

Montana, as viewed on "horse round-up," looks better than in the first bleak days of March, and I could gaze upon it without profanity.
I even got to like tearing over the newborn grass on a good horse, with a cowboy or two galloping, keen-faced and calm, beside me.

It was almost better than slithering along a hard road with a motor-car stripped to the running-gear.
When the real thing happened--the "calf round-up"-- and thirty riders in white felt hats, chaps, spurs a-jingle, and handkerchief ends flying out in the wind, lined up of a morning for orders, the blood of me went a-jump, and my nerves were all tingly with the pure joy of being alive and atop a horse as eager as hounds in the leash and with the wind of the plains in my face and the grass-land lying all around, yelling come on, and the meadowlarks singing fit to split their throats.

There's nothing like it--and I've tried nearly everything in the way of blood-tinglers.
Skimming through the waves, alean to the wind in a racing-yacht, comes nearest, and even that takes second money when circle-riding on round-up is entered in the race.

But this is getting away from my story.
We were working the country just north of White Divide, when the foreman started me home with a message for Perry Potter--and I was to get back as soon as possible with the answer.

Now, here's where I got gay.
As I said, we were north of White Divide, and the home ranch was south, and to go around either end of that string of hills meant an extra sixty miles to cover each way--a hundred and twenty for the round trip.


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