"D—n if they ain’t beauts," he chuckled. "When it comes to pickin’ out th’ real, high-toned wrecks, th’ constant scratchers, why I reckon I ’m some strong. He says to me ’Get th’ very wust, One-Eye,’—an’ I shore has obeyed orders. That two-year-old tryin’ to saw through that cottonwood is a prize-winner when it comes to scabs—his tail looks like a dead tree in a waste of sand, th’ way th’ hair ’s gone. Wait till he gets rubbin’ hisself through th’ brush across th’ river, where Peters’ cows like to hang out. He ’ll hang mites on every twig; an’ this kind o’ weather will boom things. I heard tell that Peters examined that new herd extra cautious afore he bought it—well, boxcars an’ pens can hand out itch a-plenty, so he can’t prove they got it from us." He pulled out a battered brass watch and gauged where the broken hands would be if they were all there to point. "He ’s due in ten minutes an’ he ’s usually on time. Yep: here he comes now. I ’ll get my ten afore I do any more work—wish I could get ten dollars as easy every day." Dave cantered up, his eyes fastened intently on the cattle, and he laughed cynically as he turned and regarded the puncher. "Well," he grinned, "I reckon you got th’ wust that could stand bein’ drove. Come on; we ’ll get ’em off our hands as quick as we can—I don’t want to answer no questions right now. It ’ll be like puttin’ a match to dry grass, th’ way this dozen will cut down Peters’ cows." "It shore will," replied One-Eye. "Got that ten handy?" he inquired, carelessly. "Why, they ain’t across th’ river yet," replied Dave, frowning. "They ’ll get across when I gets my ten," smiled One-Eye. "Here ’s th’ money!" snapped Dave, angrily, as he almost threw the gold piece at his companion. "Fust time I was ever told I could n’t be trusted for ten dollars." "Oh, I trust you, all right—on’y I worked plumb hard for that coin, an’ I want to feel it, like. Come on—take th’ south side—I ’ll handle th’ rest." The herd moved slowly forward into a dry ravine and finally came to the river bank. They hadn’t life enough to give trouble until they understood what they were expected to do. Then the everlasting, thick-headed obstinacy, the perverse whims which all cows have to an outrageous extent, asserted itself in a manner wholly unexpected in such tottering hulks of diseased flesh. They did everything but get wet, even showing a returning flash of spirit in the way they swung their heads and kicked up their heels. Time and time again they broke and ran along the bank, and always in Dave’s direction, who, until now, had nursed the belief that he was something of a cow-puncher. When half-dead cows unhesitatingly picked him out, time after time, for an easy mark, and simply walked through his defence, it was time to exchange ideas on some things.