206 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 



springs on the range, six in number, are in reality 

 wells, dug at great expense and equipped with pump- 

 ing plants. At each spring dwells a cowboy in a 

 tent. No longer does he ride the range, except on 

 special occasions such as rounding up for shipping 

 and so forth, for the range is fenced both within 

 and without and it is the business of the fence rider 

 to care for the fences. The tent cowboy looks after 

 and waters the stock inside his special domain, be- 

 tween which and that of his fellow several miles 

 intervene. 



At last we come to the first spring. Some Texas 

 longhorns are standing around awaiting the local 

 market, tough stuff we unhappy locals are destined 

 to chew on, but the man in charge must be occupied 

 with the bunch of Durhams we descry penned in a 

 corral further on, for his cozy tent is empty. The 

 thoroughbreds, needless to add, are intended for 

 our eastern betters; the day is at hand, however, 

 when the Valley dwellers will arise in their might 

 and demand their rights as human beings. 



R. hunts up the cowboy, and returns with the in- 

 formation that the trail does in truth go around the 

 mountain. 



Back we go, therefore, opening all gates again 

 with the exception of that in the line fence, and then 

 turning sharp west plunge into an up grade trail 

 whose ruts are worn so deep that it is a gamble 

 whether or no the fenders will clear the high places. 

 They do clear, and so do we emerge triumphant 

 from abysmal gullies criss-crossing our toil- 



