He delighted in the life--the long rides, the occasional camping out on
the plains far from any dwelling, the knowledge that he must rely upon
himself. He felt more of a man; his powers of endurance increased until
he took a positive pleasure in exercising them to their fullest possible
extent. Meanwhile, nothing more exciting happened than the tracking and
capture of an occasional horse-thief.
Winter set in early and hard. Snow fell until it lay feet deep, and
still the stormy winds brought more. One day the sergeant came in with a
troubled face.
"Wightman's horses have stampeded," he announced. "They'll be gone coons
if they're not rounded up and brought in."
"Let me go, sergeant!" said Jim.
The sergeant shook his head. "It's no work for a young hand. The oldest
might lose his bearings in weather like this."
"Let me go, sergeant!" Jim repeated. "If those horses are to be brought
in I can do it." There was a world of pleading in his tone, and the
sergeant guessed the reason.
"I meant no reflection on you, my lad," said he. "It's no weather for
anybody to be out in. All the same, if those horses aren't to be a dead
loss, somebody's got to round them up."
Finally Jim got his way. In a temporary lull about midday he set out on
his stout horse, well wrapped up in the thick woollen garments provided
for such times as these, and determined to bring in those horses, or
perish in the attempt.
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