The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

His rider clawed at the saddle horn and struck the ground on all fours. The horse turned a puzzled face, moving not an inch.

      Quagmire's countenance was as bland as a summer sky. In the distance one of the crew bent over, seemingly having trouble with his stomach. Major Bob spoke in a silken voice. "Quagmire, get out of here! Mister Lispenard, that horse stopped pitching twelve years back."

      Lispenard muttered something and mounted again. Riding past Quagmire he gave the man a cold look. "Dam' funny, wasn't it?"

      But Quagmire only shook his head. "Nev' trust a hoss—nev' trust a stranger's word," was his answer. And he rode away.

      Tom galloped toward the herd with the Blond Giant in pursuit. The Circle G riders had spread out, making a long line on either side of the herd; the wagons were moving on. Major Bob, far to one flank, raised his hat and dipped it. Swing and drag riders pressed against the fringes of the herd. It moved, imperceptibly at first but with gaining momentum, stretching into a long, irregular, formless mass. The drive was on.

      Tom stood aside until the tail end of the procession passed, then fell in with the drag—those riders who ranged to the rear and kept the slower or more stubborn animals from straying. The sun rose out of the east all in splendour, the prairie stood forth in the clear morning's light, rolling league after league to the horizons. Dust curled against the sky, dust choked the drag. Bandanas were raised over faces; the day grew warm.

      "Now watch, Blondy," said Tom. "Watch all this. It's a sight you never saw the like of before. By Godfrey, it's a picture."

      "I wish I had a drink," replied Lispenard fretfully.

      It was a picture—a picture flung prodigally across a sweeping canvas. Twenty-five hundred Texas cattle stretched in a long, sinuous line, dipping and rising with the ground, flowing onward at a steady yet apparently aimless pace; gaunt kine with big eyes and enormous horns that clacked tip to tip as they collided; here and there pausing to find a clump of grass; now and then bunching up and widening until the swing men closed in and pinched the line narrow again. Moving thus onward across a Kansas prairie green with grass newly born of the warm April rains and the warm April sun, across a prairie seemingly as boundless, as vast as the sea.

      Quagmire sidled up, nothing showing above the bandana but his shrewd eyes. "They was spooky brutes when we lef Menard. Tell a man. We walked 'em plum' hard till they got out o' the idee. Now ain't they trail-broke?"

      Tom pointed to a brick-red steer that travelled as far out on the flank as it could get, tossing enormous horns into the air at every step. "There's a trouble maker."

      "It's Jedge Lynch," said Quagmire. "He ain't got but one eye, so he keeps out where he can see the rest o' the herd. Shore he's a trouble maker. Spooky to boot. He'll raise hell sometime. Ort to be shot." Then, spacing his words farther apart and looking directly into Tom's eyes, he added, "You'll find more'n one trouble maker on this drive." He swung about and dropped to the rear, leaving Tom thoughtful. Quagmire was an old head, a wise head. And after the custom of the country he often cloaked shrewd sentiments in seemingly guileless words.

      "Funny face," grunted Lispenard. "He's certainly got a stale sense of humour."

      Tom pointed his pony out of the dust and motioned to the Blond Giant. Together they rode past the swing men and galloped toward the head of the column which was now dipping from view. In the remote distance squatted a sod shanty; elsewhere the land seemed tenantless, left to the wild creatures that crawled or ran. The smiling sun struck the earth with the first hot rays of the season, the sky was azure, and afar to the left a string of hills stood clearly silhouetted.

      "So this is the country you've bragged about for five years," muttered Lispenard. "Well, if I had to live in it I'd go crazy."

      "Not unless you were crazy to begin with," said Tom. "Buck up, amigo. You'll feel better when the headache wears away. Didn't I tell you Western whiskey was poison for the uninitiated?"

      "Mean to tell me," demanded Lispenard, "you actually like this desolation?"

      Tom turned, vehement phrases forming on his tongue. But he could not express them. This man, once his bosom friend, was becoming strange to him. The barriers were up. So he contented himself with saying, "I'm just beginning to live," and put his horse to a faster pace. A jack shot out of their path as they fell over a roll of land and came upon Major Bob and San Saba riding side by side. Point men were ahead, not directly in front of the herd, but flanking it. Thus being unknowingly guided, the bovine vanguard ambled along. At the fore was an ancient and scarred steer with a broken horn who seemed to understand he led the parade. Major Bob pointed him out to Tom.

      "Roman Nose. He took charge of this drive the third day out. That steer is as valuable to us as three top hands."

      Tom fell in with his father. San Saba dropped back a little and thus paired with Lispenard. By daylight the foreman seemed even more taciturn and ill-proportioned; Tom was again struck with the incongruity of so small a head on so tall a body. It reminded him of a ball set atop a flagpole. Looking back, he met San Saba's eyes and nodded. But there was no response other than a short, impassive glance from those little red-rimmed eyes. No more than that, and the foreman had turned, ignoring him. Tom heard the man's dry voice questioning Lispenard beside him.

      "Hope, suh, yo' are findin' it pleasant?"

      "Me?" grunted Lispenard. "I feel like an empty wine vat. When did prohibition hit Kansas?"

      Again the foreman's laconic drawl. "Don't let the boys fool yo' with their antics. Any time I can he'p yo', let me know."

      It was apparent that San Saba made an effort to be friendly. Tom thought about it awhile, then turned to a more important matter.

      "Any particular spot in Dakota we are heading for? Or is it just a matter of discovery?"

      The Major shook his head. "Last year news reached us that some territory around the headwaters of the Little Missouri was opening. I may say I got first word of it and immediately sent San Saba and Big Ruddy up to locate suitable range. Owing to our promptness, we have got the best of the ground. San Saba came back, leaving Big Ruddy to hold it. Since then other outfits have likewise sent scouts out and are driving north. But ours is the choice of the picking."

      San Saba, hearing his name mentioned, swept the pair of Gillettes with a quick, wry glance.

      "Can Big Ruddy hold it?" questioned Tom.

      "Squatter's right," answered the Major. "It's free grass, but I shall file on the water. Meanwhile Big Ruddy has ample cartridges and a good gun. I have faith no one will try to jump the claim on him. However, I started early to avoid trouble in the matter. I believe we are the first outfit north this season."

      Satisfied, Tom reined about and walked his horse down the line. Lispenard was talking to San Saba and didn't follow.

      Onward they travelled. North, always north. Sunrise and sunset. Beans and coffee in the starlight. Night after night with the infinite heavens for a canopy and the yellow firelight playing upon Quagmire's twisted, solemn visage. Twenty-five hundred cattle trampling a broad trail across the lush earth, Roman Nose plodding to the fore, wise with years. Hot sun beating down; swift spring rains pouring out of the sky, flooding the coulees and vanishing as quickly as they came. And again the hot sun playing on the wet prairie and the steam rising up. Five miles a day, eight miles a day, sometimes fifteen miles a day. They crossed the ford of the Smoky Hill, they crossed the Saline and the Solomon. Kansas was behind, and the plains of Nebraska beckoned them north—level, limitless.

      Lispenard settled into the life with a kind of resignation. Riding pulled some of the flesh off him, the dust and hot winds erased his ruddiness. And since shaving in alkali water was no less than torture he let the stubble flourish on his face. When well kept he was nothing short of handsome; now he seemed all at once slack and untidy. The long hours in the saddle, the short sleep, the never-ending monotony of the food bore heavily on his spirit. Now and again a flash of his humour bubbled up, but rubbing elbows day by day with the tight-lipped stoics of the Circle G frayed his nerves and left him grumbling. He had not learned to lock his lips as others did.

      "How