The Last Herd 



day s work. The thoroughbred was cold, but as 

 Jones threw the saddle over him, he showed that 

 he knew the chase ahead, and was eager to be off. 

 At last, after repeated efforts with his benumbed 

 fingers, Jones got the girths tight. He tied a bunch 

 of soft cords to the saddle and mounted. 



&quot; Follow as fast as you can,&quot; he called to his 

 surly men. &quot; The buffs will run north against the 

 wind. This is the right direction for us; we ll soon 

 leave the sand. Stick to my trail and come a-hum- 

 ming.&quot; 



From the ridge he met the red sun, rising bright, 

 and a keen northeasterly wind that lashed like a whip. 

 As he had anticipated, his quarry had moved north 

 ward. Kentuck let out into a swinging stride, which 

 in an hour had the loping herd in sight. Every jump 

 now took him upon higher ground, where the sand 

 failed, and the grass grew thicker and began to 

 bend under the wind. 



In the teeth of the nipping gale Jones slipped close 

 upon the herd without alarming even a cow. More 

 than a hundred little reddish-black calves leisurely 

 loped in the rear. Kentuck, keen to his work, crept 

 on like a wolf, and the hunter s great fist clenched 

 the coiled lasso. Before him expanded a boundless 

 plain. A situation long cherished and dreamed of 

 had become a reality. Kentuck, fresh and strong, 



63 



