B M Bower

The Heritage of the Sioux B M Bower

Old Applehead Furrman, jogging home across the mesa from Albuquerque, sniffed the soft breeze that came from opal-tinted distances and felt poignantly that spring was indeed here. The grass, thick and green in the sheltered places, was fast painting all the higher ridges and foot-hill slopes, and with the green grass came the lank-bodied, big-kneed calves; which meant that. roundup time was at hand. Applehead did not own more than a thousand head of cattle, counting every hoof that walked under his brand. And with the incipient lethargy of old age creeping into his habits of life, roundup time was not with him the important season it once had been; for several years he had been content to hire a couple of men to represent him in the roundups of the larger outfits-men whom he could trust to watch fairly well his interests. By that method he avoided much trouble and hurry and hard work-and escaped also the cares which come with wealth. But this spring was not as other springs had been. Something-whether an awakened ambition or an access of sentiment regarding range matters, he did not know-was stirring the blood in Applehead's veins.