In the thick dust that instantly arose, and with the bewildering thunder of galloping, the flashing change of grouping, the rush of the charging animals, recognition alone would seem almost impossible, yet in an incredibly short time each had his mount, and the others, under convoy of the wranglers, were meekly wending their way out over the plain.

There, until time for a change of horses, they would graze in a loose and scattered band, requiring scarcely any supervision.

Escape?
Bless you, no, that thought was the last in their minds.
In the meantime the saddles and bridles were adjusted.

Always in a cowboy's "string" of from six to ten animals the boss assigns him two or three broncos to break in to the cow business.

Therefore, each morning we could observe a half dozen or so men gingerly leading wicked looking little animals out to the sand "to take the pitch out of them." One small black, belonging to a cowboy called the Judge, used more than to fulfil expectations of a good time.
"Go to him, Judge!" someone would always remark.
"If he ain't goin' to pitch, I ain't goin' to make him", the Judge would grin, as he swung aboard.
The black would trot off quite calmly and in a most matter of fact way, as though to shame all slanderers of his lamb-like character.