Edward G. Cheyney

SCOTT ESTIMATES SOME SHEEP AND FIGHTS A NEW FRIEND

The next morning Scott determined to see something of the sheep he had missed the day before. He hurried through his breakfast and left the cabin as early as possible. He did not want to be caught by any false fire report or any other restraining orders. He knew that the grazing was the most important work on his district and he knew that he would be held directly responsible for what happened within its boundaries. He therefore determined to find something about it first hand and not have to depend entirely on a subordinate whom he could not trust.

It was a beautiful spring day and to Scott, breathing the clear mountain air and looking out across the glorious sun-bathed valleys, the world seemed a good place to live in. Already he was becoming accustomed to the comparative barrenness of the country and was enjoying the rich coloring of rock and hill which were lacking in his own country. Jed was still a little nervous in the timber but did not show any tendency to bolt as he had the night before.

Scott had studied carefully on his map the ranges allotted to the different herds and knew just how many sheep there should be on each range. He knew that he could locate those ranges and he wanted to check up on the number of sheep, for the supervisor had warned him particularly of the attempt that the stockmen would probably make to run in extras. He had, however, forgotten that it would require four or five days for some of the bands to reach their allotted areas, and he did not realize that it was impossible to count a large number of sheep in the open, or even to estimate them at all accurately without wide experience.

He brought Jed to a sudden stand on the crest of a little knoll and looked with wonder at what appeared to him like a river of sheep on the slope below him. There were not supposed to be any sheep down there. He pulled out his map to make sure and his face fell. A posted driveway crossed the slope at that point and these sheep were on their proper way to their allotted range. He felt not a little disappointed, for he was very anxious to have an opportunity to prove an Eastern man’s value and efficiency in enforcing the grazing rules. He knew from experience that he would have to have proof, for there was a tremendous prejudice against him.

He would at least find out whose sheep these were, count them up, and get acquainted with the herder; they might as well know that he was keeping tab on them. He rode down to a knoll which almost overhung the little draw which they would have to take and waited. This would be an ideal place to count them and size them up.

They moved much more slowly than he supposed, but the leaders finally straggled into sight and he began to count. It was easy enough at first. Then a great wave of sheep, the whole width of the draw, hove into sight at once and surged solidly forward. He missed a hundred or so in trying to count the width of the column, and no sooner had he decided that there were about forty sheep abreast than the column suddenly dwindled to about half its former width. He gave up all idea of counting and tried to estimate, but it was no use. Sometimes one side of the column was moving rapidly and the other side standing still. Then all would move uniformly for a second until for some unknown reason the center would shoot suddenly ahead while both sides seemed to be backing up.

“Pshaw,” Scott exclaimed in disgust, “you might as well try to count the drops in a whirlpool.”

“Jest about,” said an amused voice and Scott was startled to find the herder standing beside him.

“Hello,” Scott greeted him. “I did not hear you come up.”

“Can’t hear much this close to that bunch,” the herder replied nodding toward the passing sheep.

“No,” Scott said, “I thought I would count them as they went past but I had to give it up.”

“I reckon so,” nodded the herder. There still seemed to be quite a twinkle in his eye.

“They are a fine looking lot,” Scott remarked, “How many are there in your band?”

“They counted sixteen hundred and ten in the chute yesterday,” announced the herder with an amiable grin.

Scott knew that his permit called for sixteen hundred and the ten extra would not be excluded. The rear of the band was just going by in the charge of a faithful collie.

“Seems like a lot of sheep,” Scott remarked absently.

“That’s what the permit calls for, ain’t it?” the herder cried fiercely. “A government man counted them in, didn’t he?”

Scott was surprised at the man’s sudden heat. “I guess he did,” he answered in a conciliatory tone. “I simply remarked that sixteen hundred was a lot of sheep.”

“You can remark all you please but don’t accuse me of running in extras. I’ve got the permit right here in my pocket.”

The herder spoke with loud defiance and altogether too much vehemence. Scott felt sure now that there were more than sixteen hundred sheep in that band, but he knew now that he could never count them in the open and he wanted more evidence before he was ready to order them back to the chute for a recount. In the meanwhile he was willing to let the herder believe that he had bluffed him. “Well,” he said with well assumed cheerfulness, “the man who counted them knows a lot more about it than I do. So long,” and he rode away to see another band, leaving the herder laughing in his sleeve.

Scott rode over to the next driveway and was not long in locating another band. He avoided the mistake he made the first time of catching them in a narrow place and selected an open park for his observations. He waited till the sheep had all spread out contentedly and then rode up to the herder.

“How are they traveling?” he asked genially.

The herder, a surly looking fellow, was slow to answer. He sized Scott up slowly and contemptuously. At last he replied sullenly, “I ain’t got no complaint.”

In the meanwhile Scott was trying to estimate the band by counting a few and comparing them with the others. “How many are there in this band? Twenty-five hundred?”

“Some guesser,” the herder snorted. “There were fourteen hundred in the chute yesterday.”

“I’ll learn after a while,” Scott laughed.

“Fourteen hundred,” he exclaimed to himself as he rode past the band, “if there are not more than two thousand there I’ll eat them wool and all.”

Scott felt certain now that there were too many sheep in these bands, but he wanted to be perfectly sure before he made a move. He visited two more bands and was strengthened in his impression.

“The thing for me to do now,” he thought, “is to see sixteen hundred sheep somewhere and find out what they look like.”

With this in mind he determined to ride over to the next district and see what the bands looked like over there. His way led through the valley where the fire had been reported the day before. The moist ground and the fresh green brush made him smile with pity for the ignorance of the poor chump up on the lookout who had supposed a fire possible.

“Couldn’t start a fire here in a stove,” Scott growled.

The words were hardly out of his mouth when he stopped with a jerk. There in a small opening in the trees were the remains of a large bon-fire. He rode over and examined them closely. They were very fresh. The fire had not been out for more than a day for the ground under the ashes was still warm. It was undoubtedly the fire that the lookout had reported the day before. But why had it been built? It was too large for a camp fire. There was no sign of any cutting, so it was not likely that it was built to dispose of logging slash. Moreover it was the only one around there. Scott could not figure it out, but one thing was clear, there had been a large fire and the lookout was not as large a chump as he had thought.

He rode on northward into the next district still wondering vaguely about that mysterious fire. He soon ran into a small band of sheep. The herder was a young fellow, cheerful and evidently glad to see any one who might break the monotony of his lonely life.

“Nice little band you have there,” Scott said by the way of introduction.

“You bet,” the herder responded enthusiastically, “and she’s not so small neither. Of course they would not be so many for the ‘red triangle’ or some of the other big fellows, but sixteen hundred sheep is a good many for one of us little fellows.”

“You don’t mean to say that there are sixteen hundred sheep in that bunch, do you?” Scott asked in open-mouthed astonishment.

“Yes, siree,” replied the herder in a tone which left no shadow of doubt, “and every one of them paid for with my own money.”

Scott saw that some commendation was expected. “Good for you,” he mumbled absently, “they’re a fine bunch. Luck to you.”

He rode on like a man in a trance. There was no doubt about the honesty of this fellow’s statement. A herder might be a little careless in estimating the number of his band, but this man owned the sheep himself and had them counted to the last bunch of wool. Scott glanced back once more at the feeding sheep. “Great guns,” he exclaimed, “if there are sixteen hundred there, there must be three thousand in each of those other bands.” And once more he rode on wondering.

Over the ridge and down in the valley beyond were some more sheep. Again a small band, much smaller than those in his own district. Scott was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he did not stop to think how his abrupt question would sound to the strange herder. “How many sheep are there in that bunch?” he asked gruffly.

“How many do you suppose?” was the sullen answer. “Think I get a permit for fifteen hundred and bring in a dozen?”

The sarcastic answer brought Scott to his senses. “I did not mean it that way,” he said. “I don’t know anything about sheep and I am trying to learn to estimate them. I was so busy trying to figure it out for myself that I forgot my manners. I had it figured out that there were eighteen hundred there.”

“Not on your life,” replied the herder angrily, “I only had fourteen ninety-eight when I got up here and the coyotes have gotten two more. There’s just fourteen ninety-six and if you demand a recount I’ll make you pay for it.”

“I have nothing to do with it,” Scott replied. “I don’t belong in this district. As I told you I am only trying to guess the size of bands.”

“Come from district one?” the herder asked, suddenly interested.

Scott nodded.

“Didn’t know they even tried to estimate them over there,” the herder grinned.

“Maybe they didn’t last year,” Scott replied coldly as he turned away, “but believe me they are going to be estimated this year and then some.”

He knew now that the bands in his own district were outrageously padded, but how under the sun did they get in there? He was doggedly turning the question over in his mind when a faint nicker from Jed warned him that another horse was in sight. He glanced up and saw another patrolman riding rapidly toward him. He was a fine looking fellow and Scott considered himself lucky to meet him. Here was where he might pick up some information which would help him.

“Hello,” Scott called in friendly tone as the other came alongside. A nod was the only answer.

“My name is Burton,” Scott continued, “I am patrolman in district number one.”

“I thought so,” said the other without responding to the introduction.

Scott hesitated for a moment but decided to overlook the insult. It might be simply lack of manners. He had offended another man a few minutes before without intending to; maybe this man did not mean it either. So Scott went on, “I rode over here this morning to size up the bands in this district and I was just looking for some one to give me some information.” He paused but the other man did not answer.

“Can you tell me why the bands in this district are so much smaller than ours?”

“You ought to know more about that than I do,” said the other man coldly.

“How’s that?” Scott asked.

“Well,” said the other with a contemptuous sneer, “we count ours.”

“And we counted ours in yesterday,” replied Scott, beginning to get angry at the other’s manner.

“Then I suggest that you look in your bank book. That is the only other explanation I can think of.”

A dull flush spread quickly under the tan of Scott’s face as he slowly dismounted. He stepped coolly up beside the other’s horse. His eye was riveted on the other man’s face and when he spoke his quiet voice was as cold as steel.

“Are you man enough to get off that horse or shall I pull you off?” he asked steadily.

The other man started as though astonished at the question but sprang lightly from his saddle and stood calmly facing Scott. He was a magnificent specimen, two inches taller than Scott, superbly built, clean cut and a skin that vouched for a well-lived life. Scott did not know that this man was the local idol of the Service men but his practiced eye told him that he had drawn no mean antagonist and he involuntarily sized him up as he talked.

“I came over here,” Scott explained coolly, “a stranger to you. I wanted some information. I asked you a civil question, and you answered by accusing me of graft. Your accusation is a lie. Now you can either apologize to me or fight it out.”

The man hesitated an instant as though in doubt and then said tersely, “Put ’em up.”

They were both on guard in an instant and these two men who had not known of each other’s existence five minutes before were fighting like wild men, because of a little misplaced sarcasm.

Scott had superior skill but it was largely offset by the other man’s longer reach. They were both in splendid physical condition. Scott was at one disadvantage; he had not been in the mountains long enough to become accustomed to the high altitudes and he breathed with difficulty. He let the other man take the offensive and saved his wind. He received two or three ugly blows from the other’s long reach when he thought he was safely out of range, but he was used to punishment and they did not shake him. The other man was not used to such stubborn opposition; he had been undisputed champion of the district too long, and his failure to beat down the other’s guard angered him. He saw that Scott’s breath was coming hard and he thought to rush him off his feet. He began to swing wildly.

That was just what Scott had been waiting for. When one man loses his temper and the other stays cool the result is a foregone conclusion. Sidestepping a swing that was a little wilder than the others he landed squarely on his opponent’s chin with all the weight of his heavy shoulders right behind the blow. The other man’s head snapped back with a motion like that of a mechanical toy and he crumpled down into a helpless heap.

It was a mighty blow that no man could have stood up under, but an outdoor man is hard to kill, and the fellow jumped to his feet almost instantly, dazed, but showing a frank smile of admiration.

“Now,” thought Scott, “I’ll have to look out for him. As long as he stayed mad I knew that I had him, barring accidents, but when a man smiles, look out.”

But the fight was over.

“I knew that I ought to have apologized in the first place,” the man said with a winning smile, “I was dead wrong and knew it, but I could not resist the temptation to take you on. I acted like a sucker. You knocked me down and the honor is yours. You may think I am yellow for quitting now but the altitude is getting your wind. The old duellers usually stopped at the first blood. I acknowledge myself in the wrong, apologize for all my rudeness and would like to shake hands if you will let me.”

Scott grasped his hand eagerly. “I kind of thought you felt that way,” he said, “when you hesitated in the first place. Perhaps I was a little quick on the trigger, but I have had that graft business thrown at me so often that I could not stand it any longer.”

“Don’t blame you a bit. You are a new man and not responsible for your predecessors. Wonder you did not jump me when I insulted you the first time. There was no reason why I should not have responded decently to your introduction, no matter what I may have thought of you. My name is Baxter, Yale ’12.”

“Well, I am mighty glad to know that there is a white man so close to me here,” Scott said earnestly, “for there is something rotten going on in my district and I need some help.”

“There certainly has been something rotten in your district in the past,” Baxter agreed, “and I’ll be mighty glad to help you. Let’s eat lunch here under this tree and talk it over.”

So the two pugilists sat down on the sunny slope and ate lunch together like long lost brothers.