Manny Barren Months and Miles

"Well, here come them darn burros, Cash. Cora's colt ain't with 'em
though. Poor little devils--say, Cash, they look like hard sleddin', and
that's a fact. I'll tell the world they've got about as much pep as a
flat tire."

"Maybe we better grain 'em again." Cash looked up from studying the
last assay report of the Burro Lode, and his look was not pleasant. "But
it'll cost a good deal, in both time and money. The feed around here is
played out."

"Well, when it comes to that--" Bud cast a glum glance at the paper Cash
was holding.

"Yeah. Looks like everything's about played out. Promising ledge, too.
Like some people, though. Most all its good points is right on the
surface. Nothing to back it up."

"She's sure running light, all right. Now," Bud added sardonically, but
with the whimsical quirk withal, "if it was like a carburetor, and you
could give it a richer mixture--"

"Yeah. What do you make of it, Bud?"

"Well--aw, there comes that durn colt, bringing up the drag. Say Cash,
that colt's just about all in. Cora's nothing but a bag of bones, too.
They'll never winter--not on this range, they won't."

Cash got up and went to the doorway, looking out over Bud's shoulder
at the spiritless donkeys trailing in to water. Beyond them the desert
baked in its rim of hot, treeless hills. Above them the sky glared a
brassy blue with never a could. Over a low ridge came Monte and Pete,
walking with heads drooping. Their hip bones lifted above their ridged
paunches, their backbones, peaked sharp above, their withers were lean
and pinched looking. In August the desert herbage has lost what little
succulence it ever possessed, and the gleanings are scarce worth the
walking after.