For it was from this same point that they had watched the last of the herds of the big cow outfits held in the quarantine belt awaiting shipment, the riders guarding them, the trail herds moving up from the south, while over across had been that solid line of camps where the settlers were waiting to come in. “We saw the sun set on the old days here,” she said. “Let’s watch it rise on the new.” For as far as they could see the lights were flashing from the windows of early-rising settlers. A boy was calling his cows. A rooster crowed triumphant greeting to the red-gray streaks that were showing in the east. There came a flapping of wings as a flock of turkeys descended from their perch on the ridgepole of a barn, then their querulous yelping as the big birds prospected for food in the barn lot. “It’s different,” he said. Then, from the road below them, came the clatter of hoofs and riotous voices raised in song; a few wild whoops and a gun fired in the air. “The last few of the tumbleweeds, rattling their dry bones to impress the pumpkins,” Carver said. The words of the song drifted to them. I’m a wild, wild rider And an awful mean fighter, I’m a rough, tough, callous son-of-a-gun. I murder some folks quick And I kill off others slow; It’s the only way I ever take my fun. The girl’s thoughts drifted back to the big Texan who had led the stampede and then presented his claim to another. She leaned over and rested a hand on Carver’s arm. “I’m very much contented right now, Don,” she said. “But so terribly sorry for the poor tumbleweeds that have been crowded out.” TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.