question. I remember a New England movement looking toward small

brass tags to be hung from the ear. Inextinguishable laughter
followed the spread of this doctrine through Arizona. Imagine a

puncher descending to examine politely the ear-tags of wild
cattle on the open range or in a round-up.

But, as I have intimated, even the inevitable branding and
ear-marking are not so painful as one might suppose. The

scorching hardly penetrates below the outer tough skin--only
enough to kill the roots of the hair--besides which it must be

remembered that cattle are not so sensitive as the higher nervous
organisms. A calf usually bellows when the iron bites, but as

soon as released he almost invariably goes to feeding or to
looking idly about. Indeed, I have never seen one even take the

trouble to lick his wounds, which is certainly not true in the
case of the injuries they inflict on each other in fighting.

Besides which, it happens but once in a lifetime, and is over in
ten seconds; a comfort denied to those of us who have our teeth

filled.
In the meantime two other calves had been roped by the two other

men. One of the little animals was but a few months old, so the
rider did not bother with its hind legs, but tossed his loop over

its neck. Naturally, when things tightened up, Mr. Calf entered
his objections, which took the form of most vigorous bawlings,

and the most comical bucking, pitching, cavorting, and bounding
in the air. Mr. Frost's bull-calf alone in pictorial history

shows the attitudes. And then, of course, there was the gorgeous
contrast between all this frantic and uncomprehending excitement

and the absolutematter-of-fact imperturbability of horse and
rider. Once at the fire, one of the men seized the tightened

rope in one hand, reached well over the animal's back to get a
slack of the loose hide next the belly, lifted strongly, and

tripped. This is called "bull-dogging." As he knew his
business, and as the calf was a small one, the little beast went

over promptly, bit the ground with a whack, and was pounced upon
and held.

Such good luck did not always follow, however. An occasional and
exceedingly husky bull yearling declined to be upset in any such

manner. He would catch himself on one foot, scramblevigorously,
and end by struggling back to the upright. Then ten to one he

made a dash to get away. In such case he was generally snubbed
up short enough at the end of the rope; but once or twice he

succeeded in running around a group absorbed in branding. You
can imagine what happened next. The rope, attached at one end to

a conscientious and immovable horse and at the other to a
reckless and vigorous little bull, swept its taut and destroying

way about mid-knee high across that group. The brander and
marker, who were standing, promptly sat down hard; the

bull-doggers, who were sitting, immediately turned several most
capable somersaults; the other calf arose and inextricably

entangled his rope with that of his accomplice. Hot irons, hot
language, and dust filled the air.

Another method, and one requiring lightly" target="_blank" title="ad.轻微地；细长的">slightly more knack, is to
grasp the animal's tail and throw it by a quick jerk across the

pressure of the rope. This is productive of some fun if it
fails.

By now the branding was in full swing. The three horses came and
went phlegmatically. When the nooses fell, they turned and

walked toward the fire as a matter of course. Rarely did the
cast fail. Men ran to and fro busy and intent. Sometimes three

or four calves were on the ground at once. Cries arose in a
confusion: "Marker" "Hot iron!" "Tally one!" Dust eddied and

dissipated. Behind all were clear sunlight and the organ roll of
the cattle bellowing.

Toward the middle of the morning the bull-doggers began to get a
little tired.

"No more necked calves," they announced. "Catch 'em by the hind
legs, or bull-dog 'em yourself."

And that went. Once in a while the rider, lazy, or careless, or
bothered by the press of numbers, dragged up a victim caught by

the neck. The bull-doggers flatly refused to have anything to do
with it. An obvious way out would have been to flip off the loop

and try again; but of course that would have amounted to a
confession of wrong.

"You fellows drive me plumb weary," remarked the rider, slowly
dismounting. "A little bit of a calf like that! What you all

need is a nigger to cut up your food for you!"
Then he would spit on his hands and go at it alone. If luck

attended his first effort, his sarcasm was profound.
"There's yore little calf," said he. "Would you like to have me

tote it to you, or do you reckon you could toddle this far with
yore little old iron?"

But if the calf gave much trouble, then all work ceased while the
unfortunate puncher wrestled it down.

Toward noon the work slacked. Unbranded calves were scarce.
Sometimes the men rode here and there for a minute or so before

their eyes fell on a pair of uncropped ears. Finally Homer rode
over to the Cattleman and reported the branding finished. The

latter counted the marks in his tally-book.
"One hundred and seventy-six," he announced.

The markers, squatted on their heels, told over the bits of ears
they had saved. The total amounted to but an hundred and

seventy-five. Everybody went to searching for the missing bit.
It was not forth-coming. Finally Wooden discovered it in his hip

pocket.
"Felt her thar all the time," said he, "but thought it must

shorely be a chaw of tobacco."
This matter satisfactorily adjusted, the men all ran for their

ponies. They had been doing a wrestler's heavy work all the
morning, but did not seem to be tired. I saw once in some crank

physical cultureperiodical that a cowboy's life was physically
ill-balanced, like an oarsman's, in that it exercised only

certain muscles of the body. The writer should be turned loose
in a branding corral.

Through the wide gates the cattle were urged out to the open
plain. There they were held for over an hour while the cows

wandered about looking for their lost progeny. A cow knows her
calf by scent and sound, not by sight. Therefore the noise was

deafening, and the motion incessant.
Finally the last and most foolish cow found the last and most

foolish calf. We turned the herd loose to hunt water and grass
at its own pleasure, and went slowly back to chuck.

CHAPTER NINE
THE OLD TIMER

About a week later, in the course of the round-up, we reached the
valley of the Box Springs, where we camped for some days at the

dilapidated and abandoned adobe structure that had once been a
ranch house of some importance.

Just at dusk one afternoon we finished cutting the herd which our
morning's drive had collected. The stray-herd, with its new

additions from the day's work, we pushed rapidly into one big
stock corral. The cows and unbranded calves we urged into

another. Fifty head of beef steers found asylum from dust, heat,
and racing to and fro, in the mile square wire enclosure called

the pasture. All the remainder, for which we had no further use
we drove out of the flat into the brush and toward the distant

mountains. Then we let them go as best pleased them.
By now the desert bad turned slate-coloured, and the brush was

olive green with evening. The hard, uncompromising ranges,
twenty miles to eastward, had softened behind a wonderful veil of