Hard-winter Sims, lying at full length on the grass, indulging in another of his frequent siestas, was rudely awakened by one of his herders.

“More sheep they come,” said the man.

“Great Michaeljohn!” swore Sims, heaving his long length erect. “More?”

“Yes; it is Rubino with the third flock.”

Sims cast a practiced eye over the sides of the swelling hills, where already two thousand animals, the second consignment, were feeding. It was now a week since he had met Bud Larkin after the stampede, and he was worried over the non-appearance of his chief. Here, in the hills of the southern hook of the Big Horn Mountains, he had fed the second flock up one valley and down the next, waiting for Larkin’s arrival or some word from him.

Hurrying south after that midnight meeting, he had reached his destination just in time to check the advance of the second two thousand that had 150 come the night before. Knowing the hard march north, but ignorant of the conditions now prevailing on the Bar T range, he had hesitated to expose more of Larkin’s animals to ruin.

The arrival of this third flock complicated matters in the extreme, since the feeding-ground became constantly farther away from the original rendezvous.

He looked in the direction indicated by the herder and saw the cloud of dust that betokened the advance of the new flock. Soon the tinkle of the bells and the blethering of the animals themselves reached him, and he started leisurely back to meet Rubino.

He found the sheep in good physical shape, for they had been traveling at a natural pace, a condition not always easily brought about, and totally dependent on the skill of the herder. If the dogs or men follow constantly behind the animals, they, feeling that they are being constantly urged, will go faster and faster, neglecting to crop, and so starve on their feet in the midst of abundant feed. For this reason herders often walk slowly ahead of their flock, holding them back.

“Where are the next two thousand?” Sims asked Rubino.

“Two days behind, and coming slowly.” 151

“And the last?”

“Three days behind them, but farther to the east.”

Sims whistled. He realized that in five days, if nothing were done, he would have eight thousand sheep on his hands, scattered over the hills in every direction and subject to heavy loss both by wild animals and straying.

With the aplomb of a general disposing his forces, Sims indicated the rising hill on which Rubino should bed his flock down, and watched critically as they went through this evolution.

Sheep are the most unresponsive to human affection of any domesticated animal. Never, in all the thousands of years of shepherding, have they come to recognize man as an integer. They still cling to the flock life. Even when attacked by wild animals at night they do not seek the shepherd, but stand and bawl to the valiant (?) rams to beat off the enemy. On the march, the dogs do the actual herding, so that the “muttons” do not look to man for their orders.

The only occasion that they appeal to a human being is when their bodies crave salt. Then they run to him with a peculiar guttural cry, and, having been supplied, forget the herder immediately. Some people have tried to prove that this trait 152 predicates a recognition of the human being as such, but it seems far more likely that they regard him with the same indifference as a giver that they do the water-hole which quenches their thirst.

Without intelligence, or the direct appreciation of man, they are entirely unattractive, ranking far below the dog, horse, or even cow. Consequently but few men in the sheep business have any affection for them. Of these few, Hard-winter Sims was probably the leader. Something closely akin to a maternal obligation was constantly at work in him, and the one thing that brought instant response was the cry of distress of a lamb or ewe.

Now, as Rubino’s flock dotted itself over the hillside in the sunset, Sims watched what was to him the most beautiful thing in the world. The sounds were several—the mothering mutter of the ewes, the sharp blat of some lamb skipping for dinner, the plaintive cries of the “grannies”—wethers who, through some perverted maternal instinct, seek to mother some stray lamb as their own—and the deeper, contented throating of the rams.

The dogs, panting and thirsty with the long day’s march, saw that their charges were finally settled, except for the few lone sentinels against the cobalt sky. Then they trotted with lolling 153 tongues to the little stream that trickled down the valley and waded in to drink. After that they sought out their masters and sat beside them with pricked ears, wondering why no preparations for supper were going forward.

To the herders after the long trail the luxury of a cook wagon was appreciated. Only the first and last detachments carried one, and Rubino’s men had cooked their meals over tiny fires made in the barren places, as the herdsmen have done since time immemorial.

The cook, a sullen man at best, grumbled audibly at the increase of his duties. Where before he had cooked for six men, now he must cook and clean up for twelve. All things considered, it was a “helluva” note, he declared, until Sims, overhearing his remarks, booted him a couple of times around the cook wagon, so that he much preferred the arduous duties of his calling.

“If yuh could only make every man love his job by contrast with somethin’ else a lot worse, what a peaceful world this would be,” thought Sims. “Now, sheep-herdin’ ain’t so plumb gentle yuh could call it a vacation, but when I think of cows an’ a round-up I shore do bless them old blackfaces for bein’ alive.”

Finally the long-drawn yell of the cook gave 154 notice that the meal was ready and all hands fell to with a will. They had hardly got started, however, when there came a sound of galloping feet from the north that brought them all upstanding and reaching for their weapons.

Over a near-by hill swept a body of perhaps fifty horsemen, each with a rifle across his saddle and a revolver at hip. They were typical plainsmen, and as the last radiance of the sun lighted them up, Sims could see that they wore the regular broad-brimmed white Stetsons of the cattle men.

“Put down yore guns, boys,” said Sims after a moment’s thought. “Let’s get out o’ this peaceable if we can.”

The men put away their weapons and waited in silence. The horsemen swept up at the tireless trot of the plains until they recognized the tall, gaunt figure of the chief herdsman. Then, with a yell, they galloped into camp, drew rein abruptly, and dismounted.

Sims recognized the leader as Jimmie Welsh, the foreman of Larkin’s Montana sheep ranch, and a happy, contented grin spread over his face.

“Glory be, boys!” he yelled, going forward to meet the horsemen. “Rustle around there, cookee,” he called back over his shoulder, “yuh got company fer supper!” 155

The riders after their long journey were only too glad to see a permanent camp, and dismounted with grunts of pleasure and relief. They had come a distance of nearly two hundred and fifty miles in four days, and their horses were no longer disposed to pitch when their riders got upon them in the morning. The party was composed of all the available men from Larkin’s ranch and others from the neighboring places.

In these men the hatred of cowmen and their ways was even more intense than vice versa, this being a result, no doubt, of the manifold insults they had suffered, and the fact that, as a rule, cowboys far outnumber sheep-herders and run them off the country at will. The call to arms taken north by Miguel had met with instant and enthusiastic response, and these men had come south to wipe out in one grand mÊlÉe their past disgraces.

During supper Sims told of Larkin’s offer of five dollars a day, and the riders nodded approvingly; it was the customary hire of fighting men in the range wars.

“But how did you get down over the Bar T range?” asked the chief herder.

“We done that at night,” replied Jimmie Welsh, who was a little man with a ruddy face, bright eyes and a crisp manner of speech. “Tell me 156 what’s that ungodly mess up in Little River; it was night an’ we couldn’t see?”

“Two thousand of Larkin’s sheep,” replied Sims, laconically, and an angry murmur ran through the men. “Old Bissell, of the Bar T, stampeded ’em when we were just a-goin’ to get ’em through safe. Shot up one herder, lammed cookee over the head an’ raised ructions generally. Yes, boys, I’m plumb shore we have one or two little matters to ask them Bar T punchers about.”

“But what’s your orders, Simmy?” asked Welsh.

“I’m in charge o’ the hull outfit till the boss shows up an’ can do whatever I want. I’m gettin’ real concerned about him though, not hearin’ a word for a week. I ’low if he don’t turn up to-morrow I’ll have to send you boys lookin’ fer him.”

But the morrow brought its own solution of the problem.

In the middle of the morning a lone horseman was seen approaching over the hills, and the restless sheepmen, eager for any sport, spread out into a veritable ambuscade, taking position behind rocks and in depressions along the hills on either hand.

The horseman was very evidently a poor rider, for, instead of holding the reins easily and jauntily 157 in his upturned right hand, he was clinging to the pommel of the saddle, while the pony slipped and slid along the difficult path.

Within a furlong of the camp, the man’s nationality was made apparent by the flapping shirt and trousers he wore, as well as the black, coarse cue that whipped from side to side.

Among the secreted sheepmen a grin spread from face to face at the sight of this distressful figure, evidently in real wo from hours in the hard saddle. About a hundred yards from camp a single shot rang out, and then there arose such a wild chorus of reports and yells as would have terrified a stone image.

The cow pony (which of all horses loathes a bad rider) showed the whites of his eyes wickedly, laid his ears back into his mane and bucked madly with fright. The Chinaman, chattering like a monkey, described a perfect parabola and alighted right side up on the only tuft of grass within ten yards.

In an instant he bounced to his feet, took one look at the surrounding society, and made a bolt for the cook-wagon, the one place that was familiar to him.

At the door he encountered the sheepmen’s regular cook coming out to see what the trouble 158 was, and the next moment witnessed the near-annihilation of the yellow peril.

Sims and Jimmie Welsh pulled the burly cook off in time to save the Oriental, and the latter sat up with a dazed, frightened air.

“Yah! Makee much damee hellee!” he announced.

“Too much damee hellee,” said Sims sententiously. “John, you good fighter. Me like you. What you do here?”

“Me bling message,” and he reached into his blouse and drew out a piece of paper folded and pinned.

This he handed to Sims, who promptly opened it and started to read. In a minute he stopped and yelled for everyone who was not in the immediate circle to gather round and listen. Then, haltingly, he read aloud the following:

When Sims had read the entire note twice, a puzzled silence ensued. Men lifted their hats and scratched their heads meditatively. Here among fifty men there was plenty of energy for action once the action was suggested, but very little initiative.

“I allow we’ll shore have to get ’im out o’ there,” seemed to be the consensus of opinion.

“Shore, boys, shore,” said Sims impatiently; “but how? That’s the question. There’s about a dozen real smart shooters on that ranch, and I’m plenty sure they don’t all sleep to once. Besides, the worst part of it’ll be gettin’ near the dum place. If a hoss squeals or whinnies the rescuin’ party might as well pick out their graves, 160 ’cause yuh see only two or three can make the trip.”

“Mebbe they can an’ mebbe they can’t,” broke in Jimmie Welsh, his little, bright eyes twinkling with suppressed merriment. “I should think the hull outfit, cook-wagons, an’ all, could make the visit to the Bar T.”

“Yeah?” remarked Sims politely scornful but inquisitive. “Tell us about it.”

And Welsh did.