LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
burden was safely shoved into fields elysian, the cows all walking in after it, and then three bars were put up,—only three, a piece of carelessness which led to future trouble. I was pained to observe the other calf still walking around outside the fence.
Thinking I had done about all the good I could, I was going to retire quietly from the scene, when Tom called out, “Drop that pole and come and help catch this other calf.” A hungry man is seldom a polite one. Obeying orders, I advanced unarmed down the hill. I saw at a glance that their plan was to surround and capture the calf where it stood, in a fence corner. I have a quick discernment of field tactics—inherited, most likely. The unsuspecting victim was gazing longingly through the fence at its mother, not noticing the environing forces; but just as we were about to close in upon it it looked up, and, seeing three frightful ogres with arms outstretched, gave a terrified leap through the cordon and went flying up the branch road. “The dun deer’s hide to fleeter foot was never tied.” Away we all went in hot pursuit. Not being much of a sprinter myself, I was soon left far in the wake. Suddenly the pursued, descrying a big pile of brush by the roadside and mistaking it for a rock of refuge, turned aside and dashed into it, and there, lacerated by thorns and briers, it began to roar. Hearing a bellowing and a thundering of hoofs behind me, I glanced back, and saw tearing up the road every last one of those infuriated cows. A
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