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the grub, and she’s right handy with a skillet.”
    I didn’t think Hank had heard, but he blurted out, “By dogies, give me a parcel o’ good dry prairie chips, ’stead o’ this here greasewood tinder, and I’ll show you who’s handy with a skillet. Why, I recollect when . . .”
    If Mr. Batchlett heard him, he didn’t let on. He looked over at Sid and said, “Going to be a bit tricky getting this herd in to the ranch tonight. It’s scrub oak all the way, and some of them old sisters are pretty well wore down. Not being herd broke, they’ll try to scatter, mostly back to the north. Little Britches can take the south, I’ll ride point and let Zeb bring up the drag; he’s right good with a bull whip.”
    He glanced around at Lady, and asked me, “Reckon the mare can stand up to it? South side shouldn’t be too bad.”
    â€œSure she can,” I told him. “I’ve been graining her for two weeks, and she’s in good shape.”
    Mr. Batchlett didn’t seem to be listening to me. While I was still talking he got up and went to his horse. As he put the bridle on and tightened the cinches, he told Hank, “We’ll start lining ’em out. Soon’s Zeb has had his grub, you haul the chuckwagon into the gulch beyond this next hill. Unharness, turn the black loose, and saddle the bay. Give the boys a hand wherever they need it; you can come back for the wagon tomorrow.” Then he swung into the saddle and jogged away toward the herd with Sid.
    It didn’t take me two minutes to get on my boots, spurs, and chaps, and to have my saddle cinched onto Lady. I was anxious to get started on my new job, and caught up to Sid and Mr. Batchlett before they were half way to the herd. “Take it easy! Take it easy!” Mr. Batchlett told me as I pulled up beside him. “You ain’t working mustangs, but milk cows! Didn’t Hi or your paw learn you better’n that? Slow and easy does it; you watch old Zeb and that mule!”
    Mr. Batchlett’s voice wasn’t rough, but he’d given me a scolding, and I’d had it coming. Both Father and Hi Beckman had taught me to handle cattle as quietly as possible, but we weren’t close enough to frighten the herd. And besides, I didn’t really think of tame milk cows as being cattle. Of course, I couldn’t explain all that, so I just said, “Yes, sir, they did. I guess I forgot.”
    Mr. Batchlett just nodded, waved to Zeb to come in, and said, “Spread out; we’ll start ’em moving.”
    Before an hour was passed I knew what the storekeeper meant when he told me it would be as easy to herd the Ladies’ Missionary Society as a bunch of milk cows. Steers and range cattle will hold together in a herd, and each herd usually has one leader that does all the thinking. But every one of those milk cows had a mind of her own, and each one wanted to do something different.
    Most of them had been petted or spoiled by the people who owned them during the winter, and I began to think that maybe they’d grown to be like those people. Some were docile and some were cranky, some were clever and some were dumb; some were fat and lazy, and others were nervous and skinny. Some bellowed as if they were angry, some lowed in a lonesome way, and some just moaned as if they were sorry for themselves.
    It was twelve miles from the Colorado Springs highroad to Mr. Batchlett’s ranch at the foot of the mountains. A narrow road led to it, winding through scrub oak, gulches, dry creek beds, and over hills that grew higher as they neared the mountains. It would have been easy to put a big herd of beef cattle over that road. They’d have strung out for a mile or so, and would have trailed along behind each other like elephants in a parade, but those milk cows had no more idea of trailing than so many jack rabbits.
    Sid might have had the toughest