 She preferred the solemn silence of her Cedar Mountain home, and most of all she wanted us to let her plumb along. Every fall I'd try to mark her, but she'd get away again, and I reckoned that my cousin, though artistic, was a sin. Well, I sold my brand in thirty, moved out every hog and cow, rounded up, yeah, all but one head, all but that blame-spotted sow. So we organized against her, got the best of dogs and men, but we never got good started putting that hog in a pen—