"Nothing equal to it in the northwest," Nearing said.
But he did not speak with the proud confidence of overlordship that his position among the mighty cattle barons warranted, Barrett felt. There was more in his manner of regretful melancholy, as of a landowner who views with bitter regret his possessions, incumbered by debts which soon must wrest them from beneath his hand.
Unschooled as he was in the resources of this country, Barrett saw as readily as a pioneer scout seeking a settlement for a Mormon colony would have seen, the shelter from winter storms that the broken nature of the land offered. Numerous small valleys were rank with cottonwood and willow, telling from a distance of water there, making, through their rapid summer growth, winter browsing for cattle when snow lay deep over the cured grasses on the range. Shelter was there among the wind-barriers of the promiscuous hills, with their low forests of cedar; nature had made a vast pasture to care for its herb-eating beasts in the days when it set the seal of winter over this rigorous land.
"That's Eagle Rock canyon, that one where you see the tall cottonwoods," Nearing pointed. "There's water there the year 'round, runs so swift in places it never freezes. Our camp's at the head of the canyon, not more than three miles on."
"I thought we must be pretty close," said Barrett, cheered by the assurance, "I saw a couple of men down there driving up the cows."
"Cows?" said Nearing, turning quickly. "Who?
