in Andy’s direction, and refrained from finishing what he was going to say. “I sure do like them wind-flowers scattered all over the ground,” he observed with such deliberate and ostentatious irrelevance that the Happy Family laughed, even to Andy Green, who had at first been inclined toward anger.
“Everything,” declared Andy in the tone of a paid instructor, “has its proper time and place, boys; I’ve told you that before. For instance, I wouldn’t try to kill a skunk by talking it to death; and I wouldn’t be hopeful of putting the run on this Dunk person by telling him ghost stories. As to ideas—I’m plumb full of them. But they’re all about grub, just right at present.”
That started Slim and Happy Jack to complaining because no one had had sense enough to go back after some lunch before taking that long trail south; the longer because it was a slow one, with sheep to set the pace. And by the time they had presented their arguments against the Happy Family’s having enough brains to last them overnight, and the Happy Family had indignantly pointed out just where the mental deficiency was most noticeable, they were upon that last, broad stretch of “bench” land beyond which lay Flying U coulee and Patsy and dinner; a belated dinner, to be sure, but for that the more welcome.
And when they reached the point where they could look away to the very rim of the coulee, they saw sheep—sheep to the skyline, feeding scattered and at ease, making the prairie look, in the distance, as if it were covered with a thin growth of gray sage-brush. Four herders moved slowly upon the outskirts, and the dogs were little, scurrying, black dots which stopped occasionally to wait thankfully until the master-minds again urged them to endeavor.
The Happy Family drew up and stared in silence.
“Do I see sheep?” Pink inquired plaintively at last. “Tell me, somebody.”
“It’s that bunch you fellows tackled last night,” said Weary miserably. “I ought to have had sense enough to leave somebody on the ranch to look out for this.”
“They’ve got their nerve,” stated Irish, “after the deal they got last night. I’d have bet good money that you couldn’t drag them herders across Flying U coulee with a log chain.”
“Say, by golly, do we have to drive this here bunch anywheres before we git anything to eat?” Slim wanted to know distressfully.
Weary considered briefly. “No, I guess we’ll pass ‘em up for the present. An hour or so won’t make much difference in the long run, and our horses are about all in, right now—”
“So’m I, by cripes!” Big Medicine attested, grinning mirthlessly. “This here sheep business is plumb wearin’ on a man. ‘Specially,” he added with a fretful note, “when you’ve got to handle ‘em gentle. The things I’d like to do to them Dots is all ruled outa the game, seems like. Honest to grandma, a little gore would look better to me right now than a Dutch picnic before the foam’s all blowed off the refreshments. Lemme kill off jest one herder, Weary?” he pleaded. “The one that took a shot at me las’ night. Purty, please!”
“If you killed one,” Weary told him glumly, “you might as well make a clean sweep and take in the whole bunch.”
“Well, I won’t charge nothin’ extra fer that, either,” Bud assured him generously. “I’m willin’ to throw in the other three—and the dawgs, too, by cripes!” He goggled the Happy Family quizzically. “Nobody can’t say there’s anything small about me. Why, down in the Coconino country they used to set half a dozen greasers diggin’ graves, by cripes, soon as I started in to argy with a man. It was a safe bet they’d need three or four, anyways, if old Bud cut loose oncet. Sheepherders? Why, they jest natcherly couldn’t keep enough on hand, securely, to run their sheep. They used to order sheepherders like they did woolsacks, by cripes! You could always tell when I was in the country, by the number uh extra herders them sheep outfits always kep’ in reserve. Honest to grandma, I’ve knowed two or three outfits to club together and ship in a carload at a time, when they heard I was headed their way. And so when it comes to killin’ off four, why that ain’t skurcely enough to make it worth m’while to dirty up m’gun!”
“Aw, I betche yuh never killed a man in your life!” Happy Jack grumbled in his characteristic tone of disparagement; but such was his respect for Big Medicine’s prowess that he took care not to speak loud enough to be overheard by that modest gentleman, who continued with certain fearsome details of alleged murderous exploits of his own, down in Coconino County, Arizona.
But as they passed the detested animals, thankful that the trail permitted them to ride by at a distance sufficient to blur the most unsavory details, even Big Medicine gave over his deliberate boastings and relapsed into silence.
He had begun his fantastic vauntings from an instinctive impulse to leaven with humor a situation which, at the moment, could not be bettered. Just as they had, when came the news of the Old Man’s dire plight, sought to push the tragedy of it into the background and cling to their creed of optimism, they had avoided openly facing the sheep complication squarely with mutual admissions of all it might mean to the Flying U.
Until Weary had unburdened his heart of worry on the ride home that day, they had not said much about it, beyond a general vilification of the sheep industry as a whole, of Dunk as the chief of the encroaching Dots, and of the herders personally.
But there were times when they could not well avoid thinking rather deeply upon the subject, even if they did refuse to put their forebodings into speech. They were not children; neither were they to any degree lacking in intelligence. Swearing, about herders and at them, was all very well; bluffing, threatening, pummeling even with willing fists, tearing down tents and binding men with ropes might serve to relieve the emotions upon occasion. But there was the grim economic problem which faced squarely the Flying U as a “cow outfit”—the problem of range and water; the Happy Family did not call it by name, but they realized to the full what it meant to the Old Man to have sheep just over his boundary line always. They realized, too, what it meant to have the Old Man absent at this time—worse, to have him lying in a hospital, likely to die at any moment; what it meant to have the whole responsibility shifted to their shoulders, willing though they might be to bear the burden; what it meant to have the general of an army gone when the enemy was approaching in overwhelming numbers.
Pink, when they were descending the first slope of the bluff which was the southern rim of Flying U coulee, turned and glared vindictively back at the wavering, gray blanket out there to the west. When he faced to the front his face had the look it wore when he was fighting.
“So help me, Josephine!” he gritted desperately, “we’ve got to clean the range of them Dots before the Old Man comes back, or—” He snapped his jaws shut viciously.
Weary turned haggard eyes toward him.
“How?” he asked simply. And Pink had no answer for him.
Chapter XII. Two of a Kind
Patsy, staunch old partisan that he was, placed before them much food which he had tried his best to keep hot without burning everything to a crisp, and while they ate with ravenous haste he told, with German epithets and a trembling lower jaw, of his troubles that day.
“Dem sheeps, dey coom by der leetle pasture,” he lamented while he poured coffee muddy from long boiling. “Looks like dey know so soon you ride away, und dey cooms cheeky as you pleece, und eats der grass und crawls under der fence and leafs der vool sthicking by der vires. I goes out mit a club, py cosh, und der sheeps chust looks und valks by some better place alreatty, und I throw rocks and yells till mine neck iss sore.
“Und’ dose herders, dey sets dem by der rock and laugh till I felt like I could kill der whole punch, by cosh! Und von yells, ‘Hey, dutchy, pring me some pie, alreatty!’ Und he laughs some more pecause der sheeps dey don’t go avay; dey chust run around und eat more grass and baa-aa!” He turned and went heavily back to the greasy range with the depleted coffee