His Royal Nibs by Winnifred Eaton Reeve — Read

There were eighteen hundred head of calves to be vaccinated, branded, dehorned and weaned. Over the wide-spreading hills and meadows the cattle poured in a long unbroken stream, bellowing and calling as they moved. The roundup included the mothers, eighteen hundred head of white-faced Herefords. These, sensing danger to their young, came unwillingly, moaning and stopping stolidly to bawl their unceasing protests or to call peremptorily to their straying offspring. Sometimes a mother would make a break for freedom and a rider would have his hands full driving her out of the dense brush where the fugitive might find a temporary asylum.

At the corrals they were driving long posts four feet deep into the earth. Close by the posts a soft coal fire spat and blazed. "Doc" Murray, veterinary surgeon, on an upturned wooden box, sleeves rolled to elbow and pipe in the corner of his mouth, squatted, directing the preparations. Everything was done shipshape at O Bar O.