Preparations for the round-up were made that night, and the real work began next morning. A round-up on a cattle ranch, as I suppose you all know, means just what the word implies. A rounding up, or bringing together, of all the beasts, that a count may be made and some disposed of. When the cattle roamed freely about the plains there was an intermingling of herds, and the only way one man could tell his "critters" from those of his neighbor, was by the brand marks on their flanks, or cuts in the ears. Of course in later years when there were more fences, the work became easier. In the round-up the calves born since the last accounting are branded, and cattle matters generally are straightened out, and settled for the ensuing year. And this was the work that Dave and his cowboy friends did. The main object of having it done now at the Bar U ranch was to provide for the water contingency. Mr. Carson realized that Molick would probably soon again shut off a portion of his supply. "And if I can't get enough water for all my cattle I'll have to keep a smaller number until the tangle is straightened out," said the ranchman, "I'll sell off while I have the chance, and buy later in the fall." These were busy times. From distant ranges the cattle were driven in. Those needing branding were "cut out," or separated from the rest of the herd. With skillful throws of their ropes Dave and the others would lasso the creatures, throwing them and holding them to the ground, while another cowpuncher, with an iron made hot in a hastily built fire, imprinted on the flank of the unbranded cow or steer the device of a letter U with a straight bar across it. This marked the animal as Mr. Carson's. Riders dashed here and there, shouting, yelling, now and then laughing, and occasionally firing off big revolvers to turn some refractory steer. The dust-cloud was thick over everything. It coated the faces of the cowboys until they appeared to be wearing masks. Now and then one of them would have a fall, but seldom with any serious results. It was work, toil, sweat, ride hard, gallop here and there, yell, shout, leap, stumble, fall and get up again. And gradually something like order came out of the chaos. Over at the chuck wagon Hop Loy stood ready to serve a hasty lunch whenever it was called for. Water, thickened with oatmeal, or made spicy with vinegar and ginger, "switchel," as it is called, served to quench the thirst. "Well, I guess we have 'em pretty well where we want 'em," said Dave, at the close of the day. "Pretty good round-up; eh, Dad?" "Yes, but it isn't over yet," was the answer. Mr. Carson cast a look at the sky. All his cattle were now gathered in one immense herd, branded, and ready for division during the following few days. A large number would be shipped away, and others would be scattered over the ranch on ranges where the water supply could not be tampered with by Jason Molick.