on the western Wyoming hills. They had worked fast, so when the shadows began to fall, they were able to drive the last remnant of cattle that had nearly filled Piñon Valley through the neck of the bottle to the upper plateau. Then all hands, except three who had been selected for the purpose, turned home. Those three who were left behind camped in the gorge between Piñon Valley and the upper plateau and held the branded cattle on the upper mesa. The following morning before sunup the force of the Crooked Creek ranch were off again. Once more the little valley was filled with excited, snorting, steaming cattle and once again the gruesome work of putting the Crooked Creek trade mark upon the newly-born calves began.
"See that little chap who is wandering around among the herd?" asked Uncle Henry, pointing to a small red calf. "That is a maverick, which means a calf without a mother. Either his mother was a heifer and has disowned him, or he was the smaller one of twins and got crowded out, or possibly his mother died. Anyway he is a maverick. In the old days when branding was done under inspection it was a criminal offense to brand such a calf before his ownership had been determined by the inspector."
"Is the rustling business really a serious thing now?" inquired Larry. "I have read lots about it in novels but have never felt quite sure that it was all real."
