And so, at last--often not until the stars were out--the riders
would dismount at the home corrals of the ranch that, at the time, was
the center of their operations, or, perhaps, at some rodeo camping
ground.
At supper the day's work was reviewed with many a laugh and jest of
pointed comment, and then, those whose horses needed attention because
of saddle sores or, it might be, because of injuries from some fall on
the rocks, busied themselves at the corral, while others met for a
friendly game of cards, or talked and yarned over restful pipe or
cigarette. And then, bed and blankets, and, all too soon, the reveille
sounded by the beating hoofs of the saddle band as the wrangler drove
them in, announced the beginning of another day.
Not infrequently there were accidents--from falling horses--from angry
bulls--from ill-tempered steers, or excited cows--or, perhaps, from a
carelessly handled rope in some critical moment. Horses were killed; men
with broken limbs, or with bodies bruised and crushed, were forced to
drop out; and many a strong horseman who rode forth in the morning to
the day's work, laughing and jesting with his mates, had been borne by
his grave and silent comrades to some quiet resting place, to await, in
long and dreamless sleep, the morning of that last great rodeo which, we
are told, shall gather us all.
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