It was something of a disappointment when one morning a week or two later the camp-tender, who had scrambled up over the rimrock, informed Donald that he was to return to the central camp where his father would meet him, and take him back to Crescent.

"The ponies are tethered just below, so you can ride down along with me," said the Mexican. "There is nothing the matter, only your father has more than he can do with but Thornton and Green to help him. He needs you for a while. He told me to tell you that in a few weeks you might come back."

Donald looked regretfully at Sandy.

"I'm sorry to go, Sandy. I promised, though, that I would return to Crescent whenever father wanted me; of course I am anxious to help him all I can. I cannot realize that it is June, and that I have been two months on the range. What a jolly time we have had! It seems a pity to go and leave you here by yourself."

"It would not be the first time I have been alone in the hills," smiled Sandy.

"He'll not be by himself either," put in Pete, the Mexican, "for Tobin came up over the trail with me and is to bear Sandy company."

Donald's face brightened.

"I know you'll not be lonely, Sandy," he said, "but suppose anything happened to you—what if you happened to be hurt as Johnson was?"

"Aye, poor Johnson! What do they hear from him, Pete?"

"Mr. Clark has been to Glen City a number of times to see him. He is getting on finely! The ribs are mending and the hip, too. His heart is the trouble now; he is breaking his heart for Crescent and the range. The doctor says that he will never be able to come back to the ranch. Mr. Clark is going to settle him and his wife on a farm of their own in California, where their son is."

"Oh, I am very glad!" cried Donald. "Father said he should always look out for Johnson because he had been so faithful."

"It is like your father to do it—and like your grandfather, too, Don. May you be as good a man! Now get your traps together and be off with Pete. It's many a time I'll be thinking of you after you are gone, laddie."

"But you know I am coming back in a few weeks, Sandy."

"There's long weeks and short weeks; it all depends on what you're doing," was Sandy's whimsical answer. "Now be off. Why, you'd think I was seeing you to India instead of just down to the lowlands!"

As he dropped over the rimrock, Donald tried to laugh. It was not until he was mounted upon the little Mexican pony that he gained courage to look up. Outlined against the sky Sandy was standing on a point of rock, waving his sombrero. That was the last Donald saw of him.

Chatting as they rode down the mountainside the boy and Pete pressed forward over the trail. At noon they dismounted and lunched on salt-pork and pilot bread. Then off they cantered again. The tiny ponies, sure-footed as mules, made their way over the steep inclines of the hilly country with astonishing daintiness, but although they maintained a fair and even speed it was sunset when the white top of the prairie schooner came into sight, drawn up beside a stream and sheltered by a group of great trees. Several Mexican ponies were pastured near it. The curtains at the end of the wagon were parted and fastened back and inside Donald could catch a glimpse of Manuel, the Mexican cook, busily preparing the food. A curl of faint smoke rose from the tin pipe which protruded through the canvas, arching the top of the wagon. Then as Donald looked, into the clearing came the erect figure of his father.

The boy gave a shrill whistle on his fingers and touched the spurs to his horse's flank.

"Father!" he called.

Another moment and the panting pony stood still near the wagon, his sides heaving.

Donald dismounted and ran to meet his father.

"Well, well!" was Mr. Clark's first exclamation. "How is this? I sent a pale-faced American boy to the range and I get an Indian in exchange!"

"I suppose I am tanned," laughed Donald. "I know my hands are. As for my face—I have not seen it since I started. We don't have looking-glasses in the hills."

"And you enjoyed your trip?"

"I had the time of my life, father! It is simply bully up there. I wish you had been along."

"I am planning to go back with you in two or three weeks. It seemed a pity to bring you down, but I did need you, Don. If it had only been that I missed you I should not have sent, no matter how much I wanted to see you."

"I was glad to come, sir. How is everything at Crescent?"

"Going well. We are getting in a big crop of alfalfa from the south meadow. That is why I wanted you. You will now have to turn farmer and pitch hay for a while."

"All right!"

And that was what Donald did. For the next few weeks he was busy helping his father harvest the first crop of alfalfa grass, drying it, and storing it away in the great sprawling barn of the home ranch for winter feed. Days of hard work were succeeded by nights of heavy slumber. Life was very real. The boy was doing something—something that told—something that was of use to other persons; he had a place to fill, duties for which he was responsible. Continually he found himself speaking of "our ranch" and suggesting to his father that "we" do such and such things.

Mr. Clark rubbed his hands with satisfaction. Although he and Donald had always preserved a close comradeship no experience had ever drawn them so near together as had this common interest. It was happiness to each of them. From the time the boy tumbled out of bed in the early morning until he tumbled in again at dusk his whistle could be heard shrill above the click of mowing-machines, and the tramp of horses' hoofs.

At last came the day when the last load of alfalfa was housed under cover; then Mr. Clark said to Thornton:

"Well, Thornton, there seems to be nothing more for which we shall be needed at present. You can deal out the rations and send them to the three central camps without me; you can also order necessary supplies from Glen City. Some repairs remain for you to oversee, but I am sure you fully understand about them, and can manage them without my help. To-morrow, therefore, if the day is fine, Donald and I will set out for the range, I think."

Donald threw his hat into the air.

"To join Sandy, father?" he asked eagerly.

"That is my plan."

"Hurrah!"

Mr. Clark looked amused at his enthusiasm.

"One would think you a born shepherd, Don, instead of a boy who has only been out on the range with a herder."

"Why do you call Sandy just a herder, father?" Donald asked, seeming to fear that the term was a slight to his friend the Scotchman.

"Because he is a herder, son. A shepherd is a man who herds or tends his own sheep—sheep that belong to him; a herder, on the contrary, is a man hired to care for other people's sheep. There is a great difference, you see. Generally speaking, a shepherd will take more pains with a flock than a herder will on the principle that we are more interested in our own possessions than in those which are not our own."

"No one could take better care of sheep, father, than Sandy does."

"I feel sure of that," agreed his father, gravely. "In fact all our herders are honest men—I am convinced of it. After the next shearing I mean to give to each man a small band of sheep for his own. He may run them with the flocks, sell the wool, and keep the money as a nest-egg. The men deserve a share in the profits of Crescent Ranch and I should like them to have it in return for their splendid spirit of loyalty."

"Even Thornton?"

Mr. Clark hesitated.

"I have been watching Thornton," he admitted slowly. "That is why I kept him with me, and why I stayed behind."

"Why, I never thought of that being the reason!"

"It was my chief reason."

"But now you are going off and leaving Thornton alone," Donald said, somewhat puzzled.

"Yes, and I am leaving him in a position of trust, too. The supplies and much of our business is in his hands. He knows it. If he proves himself worthy, I shall appoint him, when we leave here, as manager in Johnson's place; if he abuses the confidence I am placing in him he will force me to appoint some one else. I wish to be perfectly fair."

"But I do not like Thornton," declared Donald.

"We must never be guided by our prejudices, Don."

"And anyway," went on the boy, "I don't see how you will know what he is doing. You will be miles away in the hills. He could do almost anything he chose. Have you left some one to watch him, father?"

"No, indeed, son. That would be a mean method; don't you think so? To set a trap for a man, or to spy upon him would be contemptible!"

Donald hung his head, ashamed of the suggestion.

"No," continued Mr. Clark less severely, "I have left no one on guard over Thornton but himself. I am really trusting him."

"You will never find out what he does, then."

"Yes, I shall."

"I don't see how."

"Thornton himself shall tell me."

Donald gasped.

"He never will tell you, father!" announced the boy positively.

"Wait and see. Now let us think no more of Thornton, for it is of Sandy that we are to talk. He has a great surprise for you."

"A surprise for me!"

"Yes."

Mr. Clark studied the lad's mystified expression with pleasure.

"A surprise for me!" repeated Donald. "What can it be!"

"You will see."

"Aren't you going to tell me?"

"No, not a word. It would spoil Sandy's fun."

"A surprise!" reiterated Donald over and over.

As they rode from the central camp up over the rough trail Don speculated constantly as to what could be in store for him. It seemed a long journey for he was impatient to solve the waiting enigma. What surprise could Sandy have concocted? At the border of the Reserve they met the ranger who chanced to be patrolling that portion of the government line. He remembered Donald very well and greeted him kindly; he also had a cordial word for Mr. Clark. Donald, however, begrudged even this brief delay and was glad when they plunged into the woods and were on their way through the National Forest.

Pete, the Mexican camp-tender who had come with them as guide, knew the country as an American boy knows his ABC's. He hunted out sheltered nooks where they could camp at night, taking great care to build the fire on a rocky base that it might not set ablaze the brush and litter of pine-needles about them.

"Many a careless shepherd sets a forest fire through being thoughtless," he said. "Acres of timber will be burned off a hillside by one person who did not put out his fire, or scattered sparks in the dried underbrush. Old Angus trained us Crescent men always to build our fires on a flat rock if we could; then there is no danger of our doing damage in the reserve or elsewhere."

"It is a wise plan," Mr. Clark said heartily. "I wish all herders were as careful."

So they journeyed on—now in the sunlight of the plateaus, now in the shadows of the forest. Then one morning they suddenly emerged into an emerald meadow glowing with sunshine. There a beautiful sight met Donald's eye.

Spread out like a fan the herd was grazing on the rich herbage of the mountain pasture, their backs to the brilliant light as was their wont. But of these details Donald was not conscious. What held him spellbound was the miracle that had happened in his absence. Now he knew the surprise that Sandy had for him! Beside every ewe in the flock stood a tiny white lamb!