They had ridden slowly only until their horses had "warmed up," and
now, shaking out their reins loosely, they swept on at a pace which
allowed of little conversation. They drew away from the Half Moon
corrals at four o'clock. It was not yet six when they pulled in their
panting, sweat-covered horses at the corrals of the Lone Dog.
These corrals were at the lower, eastern end of the Lone Dog, and some
ten miles from the Lone Dog bunk-house. To reach them the three men
had ridden across three spurs of the mountains, across much rough
country, and always at a swinging gallop. Conniston's legs, where they
rubbed against the sweat leathers of his saddle, were already chafed
and raw. With the day's work still ahead of him he was tired and sore.
He was more glad than he was willing to confess even to himself when
he saw the corrals ahead. For now, he assured himself, there could be
little to do but jog along after a slow-moving body of cattle.
The three big corrals were crowded with a bellowing, churning,
restless mass of cattle, big, long-horned steers for the most part,
and vicious-looking. In a much smaller inclosure were a few
saddle-horses--half-broken colts, to look at them--thrusting their
long noses above their fence to stare at the seething jam of cattle,
or, with tails and manes flying, to run here and there snorting. Two
men on horseback were sitting idly near the corrals, seeming to have
nothing in all the world to do but smoke cigarettes and watch the
milling cattle.
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