y resisting the
creeping years and his load of trouble; riding around the sleeping herd
with his head sunk on his chest, meeting the younger guard twice on each
complete circle, and yet never seeming to see him at all.

"Sing low to your cattle, sing low to your steers--"

The words and the scene opened wide the door of memory and let whole
troops of ghosts come drifting in out of the past. The hall, Luck roused
himself to notice, was very, very still; so still that the sizzling sound
of the machine at the rear was distinct and oppressive.

There was the blizzard, terrible in its biting realism. There was the old
cow and calf, separated from the herd, fighting in the primal instinct to
preserve themselves alive,--fighting and losing. There was that other,
more terrible fight for existence, the fight of the Native Son against
the snow and the cold. Men drew their breath sharply when he fell and did
not rise again. They shivered when the snow began to drift against his
quiet body, to lodge and shift and settle, and grow higher and higher
until the bank was even with his shoulders, to drift over him and make of
him a white mound--And then, when Andy staggered up through the swirl,
leading his horse and shouting; when he stumbled against Miguel and tried
to raise him and rouse him, a sound like a groan went through the crowd.

"Close a call as I ever had was in a blizzard like that," the old man at
Luck's left whispered agitatedly to Luck behind his palm, when the lights
snapped on while the operator was changing for the last reel.

There was Andy, haunted and haggard, at home again with his father. There
were those dissolve scenes of the "phantom herd" drifting always across
the skyline whenever Andy looked out into the night or rose startled
from uneasy sleep. Weird, it was,--weird and real and very terrible. And,
at last, there was that wonderful camp-fire scene of the Indian girl who
prayed to her gods before she went to meet her lover who was dead and
could not keep the tryst. There were heart-breaking scenes where the
Indian girl wandered in wild places, looking, hoping, despairing--Luck
had planned every little detail of those scenes, and yet they thrilled
him as though he had come to them unawares.

He did not wait after the last scene faded out slowly. He slipped quietly
into the aisle and went away, while the hands of the old-timers were
stinging with applause. Halfway down the block he heard it still, and his