Farther up the valley
a brownish cloud hung low-a roundup, Bud knew at a glance. He
hesitated. The town, if it were a town, could wait; the
roundup might not. And a job he must have soon, or go hungry.
He turned and rode toward the dust-cloud, came shortly to a
small stream and a green grass-plot, and stopped there long
enough to throw the pack off Sunfish, unsaddle Smoky and
stake them both out to graze. Stopper he saddled, then knelt
and washed his face, beat the travel dust off his hat, untied
his rope and coiled it carefully, untied his handkerchief and
shook it as clean as he could and knotted it closely again.
One might have thought he was preparing to meet a girl; but
the habit of neatness dated back to his pink-apron days and
beyond, the dirt and dust meant discomfort.
When he mounted Stopper and loped away toward the dust-cloud,
he rode hopefully, sure of himself, carrying his range
credentials in his eyes, in his perfect saddle-poise, in the
tan on his face to his eyebrows, and the womanish softness of
his gloved hands, which had all the sensitive flexibility of
a musician.
His main hope was that the outfit was working short-handed;
and when he rode near enough to distinguish the herd and the
riders, he grinned his satisfaction.
"Good cow-country, by the look of that bunch of cattle," He
observed to himself.
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