Raquel and Pop Peevey circuited the herd and slowly drove the animals toward the outleading valley. Had it been on the plains instead of in the mountains the four could not have ridden herd on the wild bunch. But the hills hemmed them in, the older cattle responded from habit to the yells, and the younger cattle followed. Nevertheless, it made them busy to keep the great mass moving along, and moving in the right direction. Russell’s hoarse shouts, Raquel’s high call, piercing, but clear as a flute, echoed now from this side, now from that. On one hand there were at one time five contests going on between as many pairs of young bulls, which snorted, pawed the dirt in great clots over their backs, while with lowered heads pressed together, they pushed back and forth furiously. On the other hand a bunch of cows would pile up, finally clambering upon each other’s backs in the crush. The cattle became jammed; packed. It looked as if they would not be out for hours. Jami, with the aid of the collie and a sharply pointed pole, was riding back and forth, trying to separate them, to prod them along with the slowly moving mass. There was a time when, as they approached the narrow exit to the meadow, chaos reigned. It was nearing noon, the sun was high, and in that upturned pocket so near the sky, unprotected from the fierce light that beat so straight down upon them, it was unbelievably hot. Would they never get out? Then suddenly the confusion quieted. The mooing and bellowing became less frantic, the cattle seemed to be following along easily. Far off in the center of the herd Raquel saw a tiny figure, like a little old mountain gnome, atop the magnificent back of Big Cap, the blooded black bull, patriarch of the herd. It was Boy Peevey, legs straight out, hands grasping firmly the horns of the big bull as he rode him down the glade. Big Cap raised his head in a long deep-throated bellow, full of majesty and command, calling the herd after him. The powerful vibrations filled the glade with a thunder that even the great crouching cats of Corona respected. “That’s music to my ears,” called Raquel to Russell. “Look at Boy bringin’ home the cows.” “He talks their tongue all right. He’s a wild un. Yoo-ee-ee.” And Russell was off whirling his rope after a straying cow. And so they came down from the upper mountain, and by four in the afternoon had their cattle safely within the Daniels’ fences, with twenty miles to roam in between them and the Rancho. Elated, glowing with the exhilaration of the rare air, and the successful outcome, Raquel was for returning to the Rancho that night. So with a wave to Pop Peevey, and a tightening of their cinches, they were off, the horses apparently as fresh as when they had started out that morning.