"
Angry cows fought valiantly for their terrorized offspring, but always
to no avail, for the hated rope of some perspiring and dust-grimed
rider sent them crashing to earth.
Over the plain were herds of cattle and groups of madly riding cowboys,
and two cook wagons were stalled a short distance from the corral.
The round-up of the Bar-20 was taking place, and each of the two
outfits tried to outdo the other and each individual strove for a prize.
The man who cut out and dragged to the fire the most calves in three days
could leave for the Black Hills at the expiration of that time, the rest to
follow as soon as they could.
In this contest Hopalong Cassidy led his nearest rival, Red Connors,
both of whom were Bar-2o men, by twenty cut-outs, and there remained
but half an hour more in which to compete. As Red disappeared into the
sea of tossing horns Hopalong dashed out with a whoop.
"Hi, yu trellis-built rack of bones, come along there! Whoop!" he
yelled, turning the prisoner over to the squad by the fire.
"Chalk up this here insignificant wart of cross-eyed perversity: an'
how many?" He called as he galloped back to the corral.
"One ninety-eight," announced Buck, blowing the sand from the tally
sheet. "That's shore goin' some," he remarked to himself.
When the calf sprang up it was filled with terror, rage and pain,
and charged at Billy from the rear as that pessimistic soul was
leaning over and poking his finger at a somber horned-toad.
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