Wild ducks and geese and cranes and swans filled the air or swam on pond and rivers. Partridges whirred through the groves; sage hens flocked upon the flats. Deer and elk gathered out of their retreats far up among the snowy peaks to come down into the less frosty canyons. Herds of antelope fed and frolicked over the rolling hills. It was the time of peace and plenty that precedes the gloomy days when “all wild things lie down to sleep.” The Indians, alive to their needs for the oncoming winter, made the most of the time to lay in an ample store of meat and skins. The hunters scoured the hills for game. Nixon, fearing the outcome of his attack on Alta, held his band of marauders in check for a time. Fred kept closer watch of his herd, grazing them nearer home until, when haying was over, they were turned into the fenced meadows and he was set at other work. All hands were needed now for the roundup. Nixon knew that his thieving business was about over, so to finish his work with a flourish that would give him added glory in the eyes of the Indians, and at the same time glut his desire for revenge, he made his final scheme. This worked out, he would “quit the hole forever.” His evil thought proved prophetic. All the ranches were astir with preparation for the roundup. Getting ready the outfit, broncho-breaking, roping contests were the order of the day. The old rangers welcomed the change. They did not take kindly to following the “hay basket,” hauling timber, and doing the other “greaser” jobs. “I’d a heap ruther be aboard a horse trailin’ steers,” said Jim. “If this fencin’ business keeps up, there won’t be any use for cow-punchers in a few years. I hate them horse-murderin’ wires anyway.” “It sure ain’t what it was a few years back,” added Noisy, a new recruit at the ranch, whose sobriquet had been given because of his tendency to brag long and loudly. “Why, when I worked fer old Peg Leg Jones over on North Platte, we could ride a month and never see a fence. You knew old Peg Leg, didn’t you, Jim?” “Yes, I remember the old cuss, well enough. He owes me two months’ pay yet.” “Well, he was mean all right; but he could ride any bronk that ever bucked.” “He couldn’t ride a winter-killed jackass,” said Jim. “Couldn’t, eh? Well, you never seen him, that’s all. I watched a cayuse pitch over back’ards with him one day; an’ blame me, if Old Peg didn’t come back up with that cayuse when he got up, clingin’ to the saddle and swingin’ his old rag hat, and that brute a buckin’ to beat the band. Beat anything I ever seen. Broke his old wooden leg, but it never hurt him.” “Is that a true lie?” asked Jim dryly. “It’s straight goods.” The crowd laughed. “Wall, that ridin’s nuthin’ to crow about,” Jim went on to better the braggart. “You ought to see Bill Hicks bust bronchos. I saw one pitch him thirty feet in the air and he lit right back in the saddle without a scratch. Didn’t he, Pat?”