over the plain
in mere fruitless frenzy would go the whole frantic band, lashed to
madness by their own fears, trampling each other, heedless of any
obstacle, in pitiable, deadly rout. Waite knew the premonitory signs
well, and at the first warning bellow he was on his feet, alert
and determined, his energy nerved for a struggle in which he always
conquered.

Waite had a secret which he told to none, knowing, in his unanalytical
fashion, that it would not be believed in. But soon as ever the dark
heads of the cattle began to lift themselves, he sent a resonant voice
out into the stillness. The songs he sang were hymns, and he made them
into a sort of imperative lullaby. Waite let his lungs and soul fill
with the breath of the night; he gave himself up to the exaltation of
mastering those trembling brutes. Mounting, melodious, with even and
powerful swing he let his full notes fall on the air in the confidence
of power, and one by one the reassured cattle would lie down again,
lowing in soft contentment, and so fall asleep with noses stretched out
in mute attention, till their presence could hardly be guessed except
for the sweet aroma of their cuds.

One night in the early dusk, he saw Catherine Ford hastening across the
prairie with Bill Deems. He sent a halloo out to them, which they both
answered as they ran on. Waite knew on what errand of mercy Catherine
was bent, and he thought of the children over at the cabin alone. The
cattle were quiet, the night beautiful, and he concluded that it was
safe enough, since he was on his pony, to ride down there about midnight
and see that the little ones were safe.

The dark sky, pricked with points of intensest light, hung over him
so beneficently that in his heart there leaped a joy which even his
ever-present sorrow could not disturb. This sorrow Waite openly admitted
not only to himself, but to others. He had said to Catherine: "You see,
I'll always hev to love yeh. An' yeh'll not git cross with me; I'm not
goin' to be in th' way." And Catherine had told him, with tears in her
eyes, that his love could never be but a comfort to any woman. And these
words, which the poor fellow had in no sense mistaken, comforted him
always, became part of his joy as he rode there, under those piercing
stars, to look after her little ones. He found them sleeping in their
bunks, the baby tight in Kitty's arms, the little boy above them in the
upper bunk, with his hand in the long hair of h