The calf round-up was nearing the end. Two weeks would see the finish
and supply the final tally. The figures had already progressed to the
point where they gave evidence of another shrinkage from the count of
the previous year; and during one of the weekly half-day periods of
rest three members of the Three Bar personnel found their minds
occupied with a problem which excluded all thoughts of sleep. The
problem in each case was the same but each one viewed it from the
individual standpoint of his own particular knowledge of the subject.
Harris sat on a rock and reviewed the plans he had formulated for the
salvation of the Three Bar brand, realizing the weak spots and mapping
out some special line of defense that might serve to strengthen them.
In the seclusion of the wagon Waddles was carefully rereading a
much-thumbed document for perhaps the hundredth time. A man had come
in at daylight with the mail from Brill's and Billie Warren was within
her teepee poring over her share of it. The men had finished theirs
and were sleeping.
The girl read first the four letters in the same handwriting, one to
mark each week she had been on the round-up. The fifth was from Judge
Colton, her father's old friend, to whose hands all his affairs had
been entrusted. After scanning this she read again the other four.
Ever since her last visit to the Coltons, just prior to her father's
death, the arrival of these letters had been as regular as the
recurrence of Sunday, one for each week, and in moments of despondency
over the affairs of the Three Bar she drew strength from them. Very
soon now, in the course of a few months at the outside, she and the
writer would meet away from his native environment and in the midst of
her own. Always before this had been reversed and her association with
Carlos Deane had held a background of his own setting,--a setting in
startling contrast to her log house, nestling in a desert of sage. The
Deane house was a wonderful old-fashioned mansion set in a grove of
century-old elms and oaks. She knew his life and now he would see her
in her natural surroundings.
Perhaps it was her very difference from other girls that had first
interested Carlos Deane, and the fact that he stood out from others,
even among his own intimates, that had drawn her interest to him.
Deane had been an athlete of renown and a popular idol at school and
his energy had been brought to bear in business as successfully as in
play. In a hazy sort of way she felt that some day she would listen to
the plea that, in some fashion or other, was woven into every letter;
but not till the Three Bar was booming and no longer required her
supervision. Everything else in the world was secondary to her love
for her father's brand and the anxiety of the past two years of its
decline eclipsed all other issues.
Her reflections were interrupted by Harris's voice just outside her
teepee.
"Asleep, Billie?" he asked softly.
"No," she said. "What is it?"
"I've thrown your saddle on Papoose," he said. "Let's have a look
around."
She assented and they rode off up the left-hand slope of the valley. A
mile or so from the wagon Harris dismounted on a high point.
"Let's have a medicine chat," he offered. "I've got considerable on my
mind."
She leaned against a rock and he sat cross-legged on the ground, facing
her and twisting a cigarette as an aid to thought. Her head was tilted
back against the rock, her eyes half-closed.
"They say folks get disappointed in love and go right on living," he
observed. "I wonder now. I've met quite a scattering of girls and
maybe there were a dozen or so out of the lot that sized up a shade
better than the rest. Looking back from where I sit it occurs to me
that it was a right colorless assortment, after all. I've heard that
men run mostly to form and at one time or another let it out to some
little lady that there's no other in the world. That's my own state
right about now. Are you always going to keep on disliking me?"
"I don't dislike you," she said. She was still convinced of his
father's trickery toward her own; but Cal Harris's quiet efficiency and
his devotion to Three Bar interests had convinced her, against her
will, that he had taken no part in it. "But if you brought me out here
to go into that I'm going back."
"I didn't," he denied. "But I drifted into it sort of by accident. No
matter what topic I happen to be conversing on I'm always thinking how
much I'd rather be telling you about that. Whenever I make some simple
little assertion about things in general, what I'm really thinking is
something like this, 'Billie, right this minute I'm loving you more
than I did two minutes back.' You might keep that in mind."
The girl did not answer but sat looking off across the jumbled
foothills, rock-studded and gray with sage. Some distance from them a
bare shale-slide extended for half a mile along a sidehill, barren and
devoid of all vegetation. Here and there, far off across the country,
vivid patches on the slopes indicated thickets of willows and birch
growing below spring seeps. A few scattered cedars sprouted from the
rocky ledges of the more broken country and a clump of gnarled,
wind-twisted cottonwoods marked a distant water hole. A whitish glare
was reflected from an alkali flat in the bottom of a shallow basin.
Twenty miles to the north the first rims of the hills rose out of the
low country and through the breaks in them she could see long sloping
valleys of lodgepole, the dark green relieved by the pale silvery sheen
of aspen clumps; dense spruce jungles of the more precipitous slopes
topped by rugged peaks covered with perpetual snow; certainly no soft
or homelike scene. One must be filled with a vast love of it--or die
of it--for without that love of the open life would be a deadly thing
to bear in a desert of sage.
"I've always loved it," she said. "Whenever I've been away there
always came a time when I was restless to get back. I've always felt
that it would kill me to leave with the idea that I'd never see the
Three Bar range again. But now the country has changed. At times it
seems as if it would be a vast relief to me to leave it all behind."
"It's the people that have changed," he said. "It's only the history
of all frontiers. The first settlers win it for themselves. Then
clashing elements creep in; sheep and cattle wars; stockmen and
squatter quarrels; later the weeding out of the wild bunch--parasites
like Harper's crew: still later there'll be squabbles between the
nesters themselves; jumping claims and rowing over water rights. Then
it will all iron out, the country will settle up according to its
topography and give its best to the human race. You may grow to think
you hate the hills for what happens to you individually during the
change--but it's in your blood to love them and that love will always
return."
"It may return if the Three Bar weathers the change," she said.
"We'll weather it," he asserted cheerfully. "Shall I tell you how?"
"Yes. Tell me," she said. "I'd like to know. The Three Bar is going
to show another loss this year."
"And likely the next," he assented. "Maybe still another. But that
will be about all."
"That will surely be all," she said. "Two more years of decrease and
there won't be enough left of the Three Bar to divide."
"Listen," he said, tapping his knee with a forefinger to emphasize his
point. "Cal Warren always wanted to put the Three Bar flats under
cultivation. He's probably told you that a hundred times."
"A thousand," she amplified. "But the sentiment of the country was
against it the same as it is to-day."
"But it's not," he contradicted.
"Then why all those signs?" she asked. "They run every squatter out
now just as they always did."
"Who?" he asked. "Do you have a hand in it?"
"No," she said. "The others do."
"Probably they think the same of you," he pointed out. "There's just
one man in this country that profits by keeping that no-squatter
sentiment alive."
"You must hate Slade," she observed.
"I haven't any feeling toward him one way or the other," he asserted.
"He's an obstacle, that's all. That's the way he would feel about me
if I stood in his way. There's at least one Slade in every locality
and in every line of business throughout the world. Ambition for
power. He wants the whole countryside. If he'd win out on that he'd
want the next--and finally he'd want the world."
"He has this particular part of the world under his thumb," she said.
"But he won't have for long," he insisted. "He's topheavy and ripe for
a fall. Those signs are all that saves him from going to pieces like
an over-inflated balloon. He's the only man we'll have to fight."
"What convinces you of that?" she asked.
"See here," he urged, the emphasizing forefinger tapping again. "This
will always be range country. It will only support a certain number of
cows. If the Three Bar had a section in hay to winter-feed your stuff
you could run double what you do now on the same range. It's the same
with every other small concern. There's only a few spots suitable for
home-ranch sites and every one of those has a brand running out of it
now--excepting those sites down in Slade's range. If all those outfits
put in hay it wouldn't cut up the range any more than it is now--except
down Slade's way. Every outfit in the country could run twice as many
head as they do now--except Slade. He couldn't."
"Why?" she asked. "Why wouldn't that apply to him as well?"
"Because he's strung out over a hundred miles. The minute farming
starts there'll be squatters filing on every quarter where they can get
water to put it in crop. There's twenty places Slade would have to
cover by filings to hold his range where the others would only have to
file on one to control the amount of range they're using now."
She nodded as she caught this point.
"Folks have fallen into a set habit of mind," he explained. "You think
because every squatter is burned out that every outfit but the Three
Bar is against sticking a plow in the ground. The rest probably feel
the same way--know they haven't a hand in it but figure that you have.
As a matter of fact, it's Slade alone. That's how I got a line on
Morrow the first night I landed. I said something about putting in hay
and he came right to the front and made a red-hot anti-squatter talk.
I knew right off he was Slade's man."
"How could you be sure of that?" she asked. "I've heard men with every
outfit express the same views."
"Morrow hasn't a brand of his own," Harris said. "He wouldn't lose a
dollar if the whole range was under fence. He's drawing down money to
keep that feeling alive. You'll find one with every outfit in this
country. And the chances are you'll find every one of them overlooking
a few calves on his circle--same as Morrow did. There's a persistent
rumor to the effect that any man who burns out a squatter can drop in
at Slade's and get five hundred dollars in cash. The wild bunch will
handle every case that turns up if that rumor is true."
"The sheriff has never been able to pick up a single one of the men who
have burned those squatters out," she said.
"And he never will without some help," Harris agreed. "Alden's hands
are tied. He's only an ornament right now and folks have come to
believe he's real harmless. But Alden is playing his own game
single-handed the best he can. One day he'll get his hooks into some
of these torch-bearers so deep they'll never shake them out. The
homestead laws can't be defied indefinitely. The government will take
a hand and send marshals in here thicker than flies. Then the outfits
that have hedged themselves in advance are on top. The rest are
through."
"But what can the Three Bar do against Slade until those marshals
come?" she asked.
"There's a difference between sacking an established outfit with a big
force of hands and burning out some isolated squatter roosting in a
wagon," Harris said. "I've filed on water out of the Crazy Loop to
cover the section I bought in the flats. We can pick men and give them
a job with the Three Bar between spells of doing prove-up work. We can
put in a company ditch to cover all the filings, pay them for working
on it and charge their pro-rata share of improvements up against each
man's final settlement. When they've made final proof we can buy out
those who want to sell."
"The cost of a project like that would be too big for the Three Bar to
stand," she objected.
"I'll put it up," he offered. "The money from the sale of the little
old Box L. I want to see this go through. We can square accounts when
the Three Bar makes the top of the hill."
He pointed to a bunch of cows that fed in a bottom below them.
"Look at that. Every color under the sun--and every shape. Let's put
the flats in hay, girl, and start grading the Three Bar up. We'll weed
out the runty humpbacked critters and all off-color she-stuff; keep
only straight red cows. It doesn't take much more feed to turn out a
real beef steer than one of those knife-backed brothers down in the
flat. We'll gather our own cows close to the home ranch and shove
other brands off our range, throw forty white-face bulls out close
round the place and start building up real beef; steers that will bring
fifty a head where those runts bring twenty-five. And big red
she-stock will bring more money too. In five years we'll have a
straight red brand and the Three Bar will be rated at thirty dollars a
head, come as they run on the range, instead of round ten or twelve as
they'd figure us now. We'll have good hay land that will be worth more
by itself than the whole brand is to-day. Say the word, girl, and
we'll build up the old outfit that both of our folks helped to found."
The girl had closed her eyes as he painted this picture of
possibilities and except for the difference of voice it might well have
been old Cal Warren speaking; the views and sentiments were the same
she had so often heard her father express. Next to the longed-for
partnership with old Bill Harris the dream of his life had been to see
the Three Bar flats a smooth meadow of alfalfa.
"I'll put a bunch of terriers in there that will be hard for Slade to
uproot," Harris said. "What do you say, Billie? Let's give it a try."
"I'd like to see it done," she said. "But so much depends on the
outcome. I'll have to write Judge Colton first. He has all my affairs
in charge."
Harris smiled across at her.
"That's right peculiar," he observed. "The Judge is holding the reins
over my little prospects too. They've tangled your interests and mine
up all along the line it seems. You drop a line to Judge Colton and
sort of outline the plan. Maybe he'll see it our way."
They mounted and rode back to the wagon and the girl went straight to
Waddles with the proposition Harris had urged. The big man had fallen
asleep with the paper he had been perusing still clutched in his hand.
"Tell him to go his best," Waddles advised, when she had outlined
Harris's scheme. "He'll put a bunch of terriers on the Three Bar that
will cut Slade's claws. If they burn out the boys Cal Harris puts on
the place then there'll be one real war staged at the old Three Bar."
"He's been telling you," she accused.
"He did sort of mention it," Waddles confessed.
"Then his idea is to import a bunch of gun-fighters," she said. "I
won't have a bunch of hired killers living at the Three Bar."
"These boys will just be the sort that's handy at knowing how to avoid
getting killed themselves," Waddles evaded. "You can't rightly blame
any man for that. And besides, Slade has to be met on his own ground."
"Do you think Slade is at the bottom of the Three Bar losses every
year?" she asked.
"Every hoof," Waddles stated. "Every last head! Maybe the albino's
layout rustles an odd bunch on and off. But Slade is the man that's
out to wreck your brand." The big cook heaved a sigh as he reached a
decision on a matter which had been troubling him for days. "That's
what Cal Warren was afraid of--Slade's branching out our way like he
had already toward the south. And that's one reason he left things
tied up the way he did."
He tapped the much-thumbed document on his knee and handed it to the
girl.
"You and Young Cal have been sort of half-hostile," he said. "Cast an
eye over that and maybe it'll help you two youngsters to get along."
Three times the girl read every word of the paper while Waddles smoked
his pipe in silence. Then she sat on the gate of the wagon and gazed
off across the sage; and she was picturing again the long trail of the
Three Bar cows; but this time she was reconstructing the scene at the
end of it. Instead of one man scheming to trick an old friend at the
last crossing of their trails she now visioned two old men regretting
that the life-long hope of a partnership had never been fulfilled and
planning to cement that arrangement in the next generation. For old
Bill Harris had left her a full half-interest in everything he owned on
earth with the single stipulation that she retain her half of the Three
Bar for five years after her father's death.
"But why?" she asked presently. "Why did he do that for me? He'd
never seen me since I was three years old."
"He did it for the girl of old Cal Warren, the best friend he had
topside of ground," Waddles said. "Your dad and Bill Harris had been
pals since they was hatched."
"But why didn't they let us know?" she insisted. "Instead of tangling
it up in this round-about way?"
"Bill Harris had a soft spot in his heart for the old Three Bar the
same as your daddy had," Waddles said. "They knew there was hard times
and changes ahead and both hated to think of the old brand going under
or changing hands. They was afraid that if both you and the boy knew
your path was going to be carpeted soft in any event that you might
sell out if things got to breaking wrong. This way it looked like
you'd be sure to stick. But they both knew too that when old folks go
mixing into young folks' affairs without consulting them, things are
liable to get all snarled. So they hedged it for both of you."
"How?" she asked. "What if either or both of us should have refused to
abide by the terms?"
"Then both properties would have been split between the two of you, the
same as if you'd carried them out," he said. "You didn't go and think
now, Pet, that them two wise old heads was going to leave the
youngsters in the lurch! They was planning the best they knew. Your
dad told me to keep an eye on the general lay. And Judge Colton sent
me that copy to have on hand to sort of iron things out when I thought
best. I'm telling you because I know you wouldn't quit the Three Bar
as long as there's two cows left."
"Does Cal know?" she asked.
"Not a word," Waddles asserted. "He's likely considerable puzzled
himself. But he's of a optimistic turn of mind, Cal is, and white
folks too. He surmises things will break right some day, knowing his
own dad and havin' visited round a day or two with yours. 'I don't
know what they're at,' he says to me. 'But they was both square
shooters, those old boys, and whatever it was they didn't aim to cook
up any misery for either the little girl or me, so what's the use to
fret?' You drop the Judge a line, girl, and turn Harris loose to rip
up the Three Bar flat and seed it down to hay."
She nodded and slipped from the end-gate of the wagon, taking the paper
with her. Harris was soaking a flannel shirt in the little stream,
flattening it in a riffle and weighting it down with rocks. She went
straight to him and sat on the bank, motioning him to a seat by her
side. He dried his hands and took the paper she held out to him.
"What's in the wind?" he asked.
She nodded to indicate the document and he sat down to look over it.
His quizzical expression was erased as he saw his father's name and the
girl watched his face for some evidence of resentment as he read on.
Their status was now reversed, for Bill Harris's holdings had been
easily double those of her own parent. She saw the sun wrinkles deepen
at the corners of his eyes as he grasped the text of it and he looked
up at her and laughed.
"Now we're resting easy," he said. "An even trade."
"Uneven," she dissented. "Of course you know that I'll not take
advantage of that."
"Accounts are all squared off between us now," he said. "And of course
you'll do just what it says." He held up his hand as she started to
dissent. "Don't you!" he reproved. "Let's let that end of it
slide--rest for a while. Maybe some day we'll lump both into one and
the two of us boss the whole job."
She rested a hand on his arm.
"Of course you know I'm sorry for a number of things I've said to you,"
she said. "But I want to thank you for being too decent to return them
in kind. You're real folks, Cal."
"Good girl, Billie," he thanked her. "As to what you said, it's
remarkable that you didn't say more. I knew you weren't crabbing over
what you might lose for yourself but over the thought that your father
had been tricked. I tried to put myself in your place and if I'd been
you I know I'd have kicked me off the place, or told Waddles to turn
loose his wolf."
He switched abruptly away from the topic in hand and reverted to the
subject they had discussed an hour past.
"We've a clear field now with nothing on our minds but the job of
putting the Three Bar on its feet," he said. "The Three Bar is a
pretty small outfit the way things are to-day but in a few more years
the brand that runs three thousand head will be almost in the class of
cattle kings. The range will be settled with an outfit roosting on
every available site. The big fellows will find their range cut up and
then they're through. If the Three Bar files on all the water out of
Crazy Loop and covers the flat with hay we'll control all the range for
a number of miles each way. There's not another site short of
Brandon's place west of us--twelve miles or so; about the same to the
east; still farther off south of us. We'll be riding the crest."
"If we can only hold on against Slade," she agreed. "But can we?"
"Watch us!" he said. "The Brandons would file on their home basin and
put the V L bottoms in hay to-morrow if they could. McVey's been
wanting to do it on the Halfmoon D ever since he bought out the brand
five years back. They're all afraid to start. But they'll be for
us--and follow us as soon as we show them it can be done. Art Brandon
is repping with us and I've been sounding him out. You talk to him.
In the meantime you try and get a letter off to the Judge to-day."
The girl nodded.
"We'll try it," she said. "I know that Cal Warren would rather see the
Three Bar go to pieces from its own pressure, fighting from the inside
to grow, than to see it whittled down from the outside without our
fighting back."
She crossed to her teepee to write the letter asking Judge Colton's
advice on this matter which would mean the turning point in Three Bar
affairs. An hour later a man rode away from the wagon, his bed roll
packed on a led horse, heading for Brill's with the message that meant
so much to the Three Bar. As he left Harris handed him two letters he
had written weeks past, before leaving the ranch.
Presumably only the three of them knew of the intended move but in the
course of the next few days it had become rumored among the men that
the Three Bar was to turn into a farming outfit. The girl learned that
Carpenter was the source of these whispers. Hanson, the rep from the
Halfmoon D, apprised her of this fact.
Ever since the departure of Morrow Carp had been sullen. Twice he had
taken exceptions to some order of Harris's but the new foreman had
patiently overlooked the fact. However on the fifth day after the
departure of Horne with the letter to Judge Colton, Harris whirled on
the man as he made an anti-squatter remark when the hands were gathered
for the noon meal.
"That'll be all," he said. "I'll figure out your time. You took
things up where Morrow left off. Now you can go hunt him up and
compare notes."
"Can't a man speak his mind?" Carp demanded.
"He can talk his head off," Harris said. "But he can't overlook any
Three Bar calves on his circle while I'm running the layout. Morrow
tried that on while he was breaking you in."
Carp surveyed the faces of the men and started to speak but changed his
mind and headed for the rope corral.
"He's a cringing sort of miscreant," Moore said as Carp rode off. "He
was even afraid to speak up for himself--thought maybe the boys would
pass sentence on him before he could get out of sight. I expect Carp
is poor sort of folks."
"That's going to leave us short-handed," Harris said to the girl.
"Morrow, Carp and Bangs--three short. Horne ought to get back from
Brill's to-day. We've only one more week out so I guess we can worry
through."
"How did you know?" she asked. "About Carp, I mean."
"Lanky caught him overlooking a bunch of cows with calves," Harris
explained. "Lanky is worth double pay."
The Three Bar girl had noted that Carpenter had been much with Bentley,
Slade's rep, since Morrow had gone. She had come to be suspicious of
all things connected with Slade.
"Are you watching Bentley?" she asked.
Harris shook his head.
"No use," he said. "Slade wouldn't work that way. Bentley is his
known representative and anything Bent might do would reflect on Slade.
Slade only works through one or two others who arrange for all the
rest. Morrow is likely one of his right-hand men. He'd fix it for
Carp without Slade's name even coming into it at all. Carp might have
a good idea where the money came from but he'd draw it from Morrow and
never get to the man behind. We'll never get anything on Bentley for
that reason--because he's known to draw Slade's pay."
"Then how can we ever prove anything on Slade?" she insisted.
"It's ten to one we can't," he said. "Even if one of his chief fixers
should turn him up it wouldn't work. It would be the same old
story--the word of an owner against that of a self-confessed thief. We
may have to handle Slade without proof."
Horne came back from Brill's in the early evening and another man rode
with him.
"Alden," Billie said. "I wonder what the sheriff is doing out in here."
The sheriff stripped the saddle from his horse and the wrangler swooped
down to haze the animal in with the remuda as Alden joined Harris and
the girl. He was a tall, gaunt man with a slight stoop. His keen gray
eyes peered forth from a maze of sun-wrinkles surmounted by bushy
eyebrows, the drooping gray mustache accentuating rather than
detracting from the hawk-like strength of countenance. He dropped a
hand on the girl's shoulder and looked down at her.
"How are things breaking this season, Billie?" he asked. "Everything
running smooth?"
"About the same," she said. They were old friends and the girl knew
that Alden would help her in any possible way.
The sheriff turned to Harris.
"I see you've settled down to a steady job, Cal, instead of browsing
round the hills alone. I run across Horne at Brill's and he was
telling me about some one gunning for you from the brush. Morrow, he
says. Do you want me to pick Morrow up?"
"It would only waste your time," Harris said. "We couldn't prove it on
him--the way things are."
"Fact," Alden agreed. "But I could hold him till after you're back at
the ranch. Some day folks may wake up and need a sheriff. It's hard
to say."
The men had finished working the herd and were crowding around the
wagon for their meal.
"You go ahead and eat, Billie," Alden said. "Cal and I'll feed a
little later on. I've got a fuss to pick with Cal."
Billie left them together and the sheriff squatted on his heels.
"What's this rumor about your farming the Three Bar?" he asked. "Horne
said all the hands were guessing, but I haven't heard anything about it
outside."
"And I don't want it leaking out before we start," Harris said. "But
we're going to break out the flat. I had the plans all laid and sent
word off. Things are moving toward the start right now."
"It'll stir things up," Alden predicted. With one forefinger he traced
a design in the dust, then blotted it out. "I'll play in with you the
best I can."
"We've got to make a clean split," Harris said. "Get the wild ones
definitely set apart. Then they can be handled." When he spoke again
it was apparently as if to himself. "Al Moody sprung it in the
Gallatin country a few years back," he said reflectively. "And old Con
Ristine worked it on the Nations Cow-trail twenty years ago. It always
brings the split."
"That kind of thing is dead against the law," the sheriff said. "But
it works right well--that backfire stuff. And it's never been proved
on either Al Moody or old Con Ristine, so I hear."
"But of course I wouldn't have a hand in anything like that," Harris
stated.
"No. Neither would I," said the sheriff. "Nothing like that."
Alden was regarding old Rile Foster who had drawn apart from the rest
and was eating his meal in solitude. The old man had taken a boot heel
from his pocket and was studying it as if fascinated by the somber
reflections it roused in him. Alden shook his head as he rose and
moved toward the wagon.
"Horne was telling me about Bangs too," he said. "Pretty tough for
Rile. They was as close as father and son, those two."
Harris and the sheriff joined the rest at the wagon and held out plates
and cups to Waddles. The girl was oddly excited, anxious for the
start, now that the decision had been made.
"How long will it take to get things moving after we get back?" she
asked.
"Not more than a week at the outside," Harris said. "Probably less."
"You don't mean that," she stated. "I want to know the truth."
"You have it," he assured her. "I had the plans all laid. Our crew is
already headed for the Three Bar. Before they get there every man will
have filed on a quarter I designated for him. Inside a week we'll have
covered the flat."
Long after the hands had turned in for the night she heard a faint
murmur of voices and looked from her teepee. The brilliant moonlight
showed Harris and the sheriff sitting off by themselves. For no
apparent reason she thought of Carlos Deane and, point by point, she
contrasted him with the man who sat talking to the sheriff. Each was
almost super-efficient in his own chosen line and she caught herself
wondering what each one would do if suddenly transplanted to the
environment of the other. Then her mind occupied itself with Harris
who would soon break out the first plow furrow that had ever scarred
the range within a radius of fifty miles and she pictured again a sign
she had seen that day: "Squatter let your wagon wheels keep turning."