Fer a good while after thet stampede Lassiter milled we hed no trouble.

Why, even the sage dogs left us.

But it's begun agin--thet flashin' of lights over ridge tips, an' queer puffin' of smoke, en' then at night strange whistles en' noises.

But the herd's acted magnificent.

An' my boys, say, Miss Withersteen, they're only kids, but I ask no better riders.