dy was to be expected. The cattle were thin and restless. It was
unsafe to leave a camp unprotected; the half-wild animals trampled
everything into the ground. The cattlemen, of whatever camp, appeared
sullen and suspicious of every comer.

"It's mighty close to a cattle war," said one old lean and leathery
individual to Bob; "I know, for I been thar. Used to run cows in
Montana. I hear everywhar talk about Wright's cattle dyin' in mighty
funny ways. I know that's so, for I seen a slather of dead cows myself.
Some of 'em fall off cliffs; some seem to have broke their legs. Some
bogged down. Some look like to have just laid down and died."

"Well, if they're weak from loss of feed, isn't that natural?" asked
Bob.

"Wall," said the old cowman, "in the first place, they're pore, but they
ain't by no means weak. But the strange part is that these yere
accidents always happens to Wright's cattle."

He laughed and added:

"The carcasses is always so chawed up by b'ar and coyote--or at least
that's what they _say_ done it--that you can't sw'ar as to how they
_did_ come to die. But I heard one funny thing. It was over at the
Pollock boys' camp. Shelby, Wright's straw boss, come ridin' in pretty
mad, and made a talk about how it's mighty cur'ous only Wright's cattle
is dyin'.

"'It shorely looks like the country is unhealthy for plains cattle,'
says George Pollock; 'ours is brought up in the hills.'

"'Well,' says Shelby, 'if I ever comes on one of these accidents
a-happenin', I'll shore make some one hard to catch!'

"'Some one's likely one of these times to make you almighty _easy_ to
catch!' says George.

"Now," concluded the old cattleman, "folks don't make them bluffs for
the sake of talkin' at a mark--not in this country."

Nevertheless, in spite of that prediction, the summer passed without any
personal clash. The cattle came out from the mountains rather earlier
than usual, gaunt, wiry, active. They were in fine shape, as far as
health was concerned; but absolutely unfit, as they then stood, for
beef. The Simeon Wright herds were first, thousands of them, in charge
of many cowboys and dogs. The punchers were a reckless, joyous crew,
skylarking in anticipation of the towns of the plains. They kissed their
hands and waved their hats at all women, old and young, in the mill
settlement; they played pranks on each other; they charged here and
there on their wiry ponies, whirling to right and left, 'turning on a
t