He listened for a moment, then walked rapidly to
the Lone Pine Hill from whose slight elevation he could see abroad over
the low mountains to the west. The gray light before sunrise was now
strengthening every moment. By the time Bob had reached the summit of
the knoll it had illuminated the world.
A wandering suction of air toward the higher peaks brought with it the
murmur of a multitude. Bob topped the hill and turned his eyes to the
west. A great cloud of dust arose from among the chaparral and oaks,
drifting slowly but certainly toward the Ranges. Bob could now make out
the bawling, shouting, lowing of great herds on the march. In spite of
pledges and promises, in spite of California John's reports, of Thorne's
recommendations, of Plant's assurances, Simeon Wright's cattle were
again coming in!
Bob shook his head sadly, and his clear-cut young face was grave. No one
knew better than himself what this must mean to the mountain people,
for his late spring and early fall work had brought him much in contact
with them. He walked thoughtfully down the hill.
When just on the outskirts of the little village he was overtaken by
George Pollock on horseback.
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