In the winter his mother grew gaunt. The cold was intense at times, and the snowfall was greater than the oldest bull could recall. At rare intervals men came riding to inspect and on one visit drove some of the weaker cattle to the home pasture, there to be fed daily. For the others little could be done, and the red-and-white was one of them. There were many good windbreaks on the range and the calf was tough, so he won through somehow, though once when the snow drifted deep and the cow could not find grass in her wanderings, grim death stared them in the face. The calf himself went three days without a meal, yet lived. A cow will not paw down through the snow like a horse, and mother and son saw some of their friends perish. Spring came at last--suddenly, like a mountain sunrise--and the earth was exceeding glad. Worried and emaciated, they greeted the season of hope with a sudden access of energy. In later months the red-and-white was weaned. He learned to eat grass, of which accomplishment he was at first inordinately proud, and he throve on it; and he had but one worry in the world--heel flies. It has been said that Come-a-Seven was lusty. He was an amazing big fellow for his age. When round-up time arrived again and he was herded with about fourteen hundred cattle, he grew chesty over the fact that he sized up well with most of the two-year-olds. His strength and restless energy were proportionate. Indeed, Come-a-Seven bade fair to be a rounder. While the other cattle would be sleeping peacefully on the bed-ground, the young red-and-white would go up and down through the herd, trying to start some excitement. He always chose to walk straight through the center of the recumbent host, and where he passed all got to their feet uneasily. The tired old cows would grumble at him and tell him to go to bed, but he was proof against all reproaches and conscience he had none. “Damn him,” grumbled a puncher on guard as he watched his wanderings for the twentieth time, and for the twentieth time turned and drove back some who tried to walk out at his prompting. “He’s playing for a stompede.” “I swan if it ain’t Come-a-Seven!” remarked Steve, when the red-and-white passed very near him. “Git to bed, Come-a-Seven. I reckon you’re a rake.” When tired of his solitary roaming, the red-and-white would select some young steer weaker than himself, butt him off the bed he had warmed, and compose himself to slumber. Whereat a great sigh of satisfaction would be heard mingled with the blowing of the cattle. Another year passed. When the cowboys came whooping up the cattle in the following August, the red-and-white heard the loud shoutings and saw, with contemptuous resentment, his fellow-creatures being propelled toward the round-up ground. Their meekness awoke hot rebellion in him. Big he was now and of the strength of two. He decided he would not go.