The Flockmaster of Poison Creek. George W. Ogden

you’ve got the makin’ of a sheepman in you,” Tim said, thoughtfully, as they came in sight of the hay. “I’ve got an old man I could put you under till the dogs got used to you and you learnt their ways and found out something among the thousand things a man’s got to know if he intends to make a success of runnin’ sheep. Old Dad Frazer could put you onto the tricks of the trade quicker than any man I know. Maybe you have got the makin’ of a sheepman in you. I’ll have to think it over.”

      Tim took the four days they were at the hay to think about it. At the end of that time, with the hay in stack and the mowing-machine loaded into the wagon for the rough journey to the ranch, Tim unburdened his mind.

      “I’ve decided to try you out, John,” he announced, 55 but shaking his head as he spoke, as if he doubted the wisdom of the venture. “I’ll leave you here with Dad Frazer––he’s over on Horsethief, about six miles across from Joan’s range––and let him break you in. You understand, you don’t go in on shares till you’re able to handle at least two thousand head.”

      “I agree on that.”

      “And then there’s another little point.” Tim shifted his feet, jerked up his trousers, rubbed his chin in a truly Irish way. “That girl of mine, Joan, she’s got it in her head she wants to be a lady, and go to college and put on agonies. No use in it, as I tell her. No girl that’s got money needs any of the education stuff. I got on without it, and I made my money without it. Joan she wants you to give her some lessons. She made me promise I wouldn’t take you on unless you’d agree to that as part of our conditions and contract.”

      Mackenzie had no need to put on a face of thinking it over seriously; he was entirely sincere in the silence he held while he revolved it in his mind. He doubted whether more learning would bring to Joan the contentment which she lacked in her present state. It might only open the door to a greater longing, or it might disillusion her when her feet had left these wild, free hills, and set a pang in her heart like a flame for the things which knowledge closes the door against the return for evermore.

      “I’ll tell you how to handle her to be rid of her soon,” said Tim, winking craftily, seeing how the wind stood. “Discourage her, tell her she ain’t got the mind for books and Latin and mathematics. All the mathematics 56 she needs is enough to count her sheep and figure her clip. Tell her to put books out of her head and stick to the range, marry some good sheepman if one turns up to her taste, or pass them all up if she likes. But tell her to stick to sheep, whatever she does. She can be the sheep queen of this country in fifteen years; she’s as handy with ’em now as I am, and I tell you, John, that’s something that’s hard for me to say, even of my own girl. But she is; she’s as good a sheepman right now as I am or ever will be. But you don’t need to tell her that.”

      “I don’t believe she’ll take it, but it’s the soundest advice I could give her,” Mackenzie said.

      “Work up to it gradual, lad; it can’t be done in a day. Make the lessons hard, pile the Latin on heavy. Lord, I remember it, back in the old country, old Father MacGuire layin’ it on the lads under his thumb. Devil a word of it sticks to me now, not even the word for sheep. I tried to remember some of it when they sent me up to the legislature in Cheyenne; I wanted to knock ’em over. But it had all leaked out. Discourage her, man; discourage her.”

      “Yes, that might be the greatest kindness I could do her in the end,” Mackenzie said.

      “I’ll drop you off over there; you can stay in camp tonight with Charley and Joan. Tomorrow I’ll come back and take you out to Dad Frazer’s camp, and you can begin your schoolin’ for the makin’ of a master. But begin early to discourage her, John; begin at her early, lad.”