Explore "Out of the Blue" by Bertrand W. Sinclair on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
On the plain slanting imperceptibly toward the Marias River, a herd grazed south in loose formation, nearly a thousand head of mature cattle. All these horned beasts bore on their ribs a freshly seared brand -- the Maltese Cross. Also, rather strangely, considering that the Maltese Cross home ranch lay just out of sight in the valley, taken in conjunction with this foreign brand, the four riders loafing on the fringes of the herd rode horses with a Capital K gracefully curved on each glossy shoulder.
A mile from the leaders of this herd, now occasionally sniffing at water afar, the clustered buildings of the Maltese Cross stood beside the river. In a stout log bunk house, with one door and two windows, a group of sullen-faced men sat disconsolate. The door was shut. Each window was boarded to the top, so that the interior lay in a sort of gray gloom. And, outside, by the single door and by each window stood a bored cowpuncher, doing sentry duty with a rifle in the crook of his arm.