136 WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON 



Round and round rode the riders; round and 

 round moved the weaving, shifting forms of the 

 cattle, out of the dark and into the dark, a gray 

 spectral line like a procession of ghosts, or some 

 morris dance of the desert's sheeted dead. But it 

 was not a line, it was a sea of forms; not a proces- 

 sion, but the even surging of a maelstrom of hoofs 

 a mile around. 



Wade galloped out on the plain for a breath 

 of air and a look at the sky. If it would only 

 rain ! A quick, cold rain would quiet them ; but 

 there was no feel of rain in the darkness, no smell 

 of it on the air ; only the powdery taste of the 

 bitter sage. 



The desert, where the herd was camped, was 

 one of the highest of a series of tablelands, or 

 benches; it lay as level as a floor, rimmed by 

 sheer rock, from which there was a drop to the 

 bench of sage below. The herd when overtaken 

 by the dusk had been headed for a pass descend- 

 ing to the next lower bench, but was now halted 

 within a mile of the rim rock on the east, where 

 there was a perpendicular fall of about three hun- 

 dred feet. 



It was the last place an experienced plainsman 



