It was on such an occasion, when left far behind, that one of the
ungainly legs found its way into a badger hole. The collapse was
harder and more complete than usual, and the little sufferer would have
died there had he not been found by Dave and Irene in the course of
their rides. Dave, after a moment's examination, drew his revolver,
but Irene pled for the life of the unfortunate.
"Oh, don't kill it, Dave," she cried. "You couldn't kill it! Let's
get the wagon and take it home. It'll get all right, won't it?"
"Never be worth a----," said Dave, checking his vocabulary in the nick
of time. "Once they begin to give trouble you might's well knock 'em
on the head."
"But it's cruel," she protested. "Just to kill it because it's hurt."
"I don't know about the cruel," he answered. "You see, they're all
raised, every one of 'em, to be killed, anyway. Jus' like people, I
guess. Sooner or later. But if your heart's set on this little
crittur, we'll save it's long as we can."
So the calf was taken home and became Irene's special care. The mother
was captured and tied up in the corral, and the calf, although lame,
began to thrive and wax strong. It would gallop in its ungainly way
about the yard, in its exuberation of youthful innocence, while the
mother pined for the latest scandal from the great fields over the
hills.
"Brownie, we'll call it," said Irene, "on account of its colour."
"All right," said Dave, "on account of your sweater.
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