Time after time, with infinite
patience, she tried it again the moment my back was turned. I
tried driving her far into the herd. No use; she always
returned. Quirtings and stones had no effect on her mild and
steady persistence.
"She's a San Simon cow," drawled my neighbour. "Everybody knows
her. She's at every round-up, just naturally raisin' hell."
When the last man had returned from chuck, Homer made the
dispositions for the cut. There were present probably thirty men
from the home ranches round about, and twenty representing owners
at a distance, here to pick up the strays inevitable to the
season's drift. The round-up captain appointed two men to hold
the cow-and-calf cut, and two more to hold the steer cut.
Several of us rode into the herd, while the remainder retained
their positions as sentinels to hold the main body of cattle in
shape.
Little G and I rode slowly among the cattle looking everywhere.
The animals moved sluggishly aside to give us passage, and closed
in as sluggishly behind us, so that we were always closely hemmed
in wherever we went. Over the shifting sleek backs, through the
eddying clouds of dust, I could make out the figures of my
companions moving slowly, apparently aimlessly, here and there.
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