Happy Family, riding close-grouped, stiffened in their saddles and stared amazed at the outrage.
“Sheepherders never did have any nerve,” Irish observed after a minute. “They keep their places fine! They’ll drive their sheep right into your dooryard and tell ‘en to help themselves to anything that happens to look good to them. Oh, they’re sure modest and retiring!”
Weary, who had charge of the outfit during Chip’s absence, was making straight for the nearest herder. Pink and Andy went with him, as a matter of course.
“You fellows ride up around that side, and put the run on them sheep,” Weary shouted back to the others. “We’ll start the other side moving. Make ‘em travel—back where they came from.” He jerked his head toward the north. He knew, just as they all knew, that there had been no sheep to the south, unless one counted those that ranged across the Missouri river.
As the three forced their horses up the steep slope, the herder, sitting slouched upon a rock, glanced up at them dully. He had a long stick, with which he was apathetically turning over the smaller stones within his reach, and as apathetically killing the black bugs that scuttled out from the moist earth beneath. He desisted from this unexciting pastime as they drew near, and eyed them with the sullenness that comes of long isolation when the person’s nature forbids that other extreme of babbling garrulity, for no man can live long months alone and remain perfectly normal. Nature, that stern mistress, always exacts a penalty from us foolish mortals who would ignore the instincts she has wisely implanted within us for our good.
“Maybe,” Weary began mildly and without preface, “you don’t know this is private property. Get busy with your dogs, and haze these sheep back on the bench.” He waved his hand to the north. “And, when you get a good start in that direction,” he added, “yuh better keep right on going.”
The herder surveyed him morosely, but he said nothing; neither did he rise from the rock to obey the command. The dogs sat upon their haunches and perked their ears inquiringly, as if they understood better than did their master that these men were not to be quite overlooked.
“I meant to-day,” Weary hinted, with the manner of one who deliberately holds his voice quiet.
“I never asked yuh what yuh meant,” the herder mumbled, scowling. “We got to keep ‘em on water another hour, yet.” He went back to turning over the small rocks and to pursuing with his stick the bugs, as if the whole subject were squeezed dry of interest.
For a minute Weary stared unwinkingly down at him, uncertain whether to resent this as pure insolence, or to condone it as imbecility. “Mamma!” he breathed eloquently, and grinned at Andy and Pink. “This is a real talkative cuss, and obliging, too. Come on, boys; he’s too busy to bother with a little thing like sheep.”
He led the way around to the far side of the band, the nearest sheep scuttling away from then as they passed. “I don’t suppose we could work the combination on those dogs—what?” he considered aloud, glancing back at them where they still sat upon their haunches and watched the strange riders. “Say, Cadwalloper, you took a few lessons in sheepherding, a couple of years ago, when you was stuck on that girl—remember? Whistle ‘em up here and set ‘en to work.”
“You go to the devil,” Pink’s curved hips replied amiably to his boss. “I’ve got loss-uh-memory on the sheep business.”
Whereat Weary grinned and said no more about it.
On the opposite side of the coulee, the boys seemed to be laboring quite as fruitlessly with the other herder. They heard Big Medicine’s truculent bellow, as he leaned from the saddle and waved a fist close to the face of the herder, but, though they rode with their eyes fixed upon the group, they failed to see any resultant movement of dogs, sheep or man.
There is, at times, a certain safety in being the hopeless minority. Though seven indignant cowpunchers surrounded him, that herder was secure from any personal molestation—and he knew it. They were seven against one; therefore, after making some caustic remarks, which produced as little effect as had Weary’s command upon the first man, the seven were constrained to ride here and there along the wavering, gray line, and, with shouts and swinging ropes, themselves drive the sheep from the coulee.
There was much clamor and dust and riding to and fro. There was language which would have made the mothers of then weep, and there were faces grown crimson from wrath. Eventually, however, the Happy Family faced the north fence of the Flying U boundary, and saw the last woolly back scrape under the lower wire, leaving a toll of greasy wool hanging from the barbs.
The herders had drawn together, and were looking on from a distance, and the four dogs were yelping uneasily over their enforced inaction. The Happy Family went back and rounded up the herders, and by sheer weight of numbers forced them to the fence without laying so much as a finger upon then. The one who had been killing black bugs gave then an ugly look as he crawled through, but even he did not say anything.
“Snap them wires down where they belong,” Weary commanded tersely.
The man hesitated a minute, then sullenly unhooked the barbs of the two lower strands, so that the wires, which had thus been lifted to permit the passing of the sheep, twanged apart and once more stretched straight from post to post.
“Now, just keep in mind the fact that fences are built for use. This is a private ranch, and sheep are just about as welcome as smallpox. Haze them stinking things as far north as they’ll travel before dark, and at daylight start ‘em going again. Where’s your camp, anyhow?”
“None of your business,” mumbled the bugkiller sourly.
Weary scanned the undulating slope beyond the fence, saw no sign of a camp, and glanced uncertainly at his fellows. “Well, it don’t matter much where it is; you see to it you don’t sleep within five miles of here, or you’re liable to have bad dreams. Hit the trail, now!”
They waited inside the fence until the retreating sheep lost their individuality as blatting animals, ambling erratically here and there, while they moved toward the brow of the hill, and merged into a great, gray blotch against the faint green of the new grass—a blotch from which rose again that vibrant, sing-song humming of many voices mingled. Then they rode back down the coulee to their own work, taking it for granted that the trespassing was an incident which would not be repeated—by those particular sheep, at any rate.
It was, therefore, with something of a shock that the Happy Family awoke the next morning to hear Pink’s melodious treble shouting in the bunk-house at sunrise next morning:
“‘G’wa-a-y round’ ‘em, Shep! Seven black ones in the coulee!” Men who know well the West are familiar with that facetious call.
“Ah, what’s the matter with yuh?” Irish raised a rumpled, brown head from his pillow, and blinked sleepily at him. “I’ve been dreaming I was a sheepherder, all night.”
“Well, you’ve got the swellest chance in the world to ‘make every dream cone true, dearie,’” Pink retorted. “The whole blamed coulee’s full uh sheep. I woke up a while ago and thought I just imagined I heard ‘en again; so I went out to take a look—or a smell, it was—and they’re sure enough there!”
Weary swung one long leg out from under his blankets and reached for his clothes. He did not say anything, but his face portended trouble for the invaders.
“Say!” cried Big Medicine, coming out of his bunk as if it were afire, “I tell yuh right now then blattin’ human apes wouldn’t git gay around here if I was runnin’ this outfit. The way I’d have of puttin’ them sheep on the run wouldn’t be slow, by cripes! I’ll guarantee—”
By then the bunk-house was buzzing with voices, and there was none to give heed to Big Medicine s blatant boasting. Others there were who seemed rather inclined to give Weary good advice while they pulled on their boots and sought for their gloves and rolled early-morning cigarettes, and otherwise prepared themselves for what Fate might have waiting for then outside the door.
“Are