The creek widens to a deep gully.

We dive into it and up on the opposite side, carrying a moving cloud of impalpable powder with us.

Cattle are scattered over the plain, grazing quietly or banded together in vast restless herds.

George makes a wide, indefinite sweep with the riata, as if to include them all in his vaquero's loop, and says, "Ours!" "About how many, George ?" "Don't know." "How many ?" "'Well, p'r'aps three thousand head," says George, reflecting.

"We don't know, takes five men to look 'em up and keep run." "What are they worth ?" "About thirty dollars a head." I make a rapid calculation, and look my astonishment at the laughing George.