The B.M. Bower MEGAPACK ®. B.M. Bower
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be vaccinated?”
“That ain’t imagination,” Pink called out from within. “When anybody claims there’s sheep in Flying U coulee, that’s straight loco.”
“Come on out here and smell ’em yourself, then!” Slim bawled indignantly. “I never seen such an outfit as this is gittin’ to be; you fellers don’t believe nobody, no more. We ain’t all Andy Greens.”
Upon hearing this Andy pushed back his chair and strolled outside. He clapped his hand down upon Slim’s fat-cushioned shoulder and swayed him gently. “Never mind, Slim; you can’t all be famous,” he comforted. “Some day, maybe, I’ll teach yuh the fine art of lying more convincingly than the ordinary man can tell the truth. It is a fine art; it takes a genius to put it across. Now, the only time anybody doubts my word is when I’m sticking to the truth hike a sand burr to a dog’s tail.”
From away to the west, borne on the wind which swept steadily down the coulee, came that faint, humming sing-song, which can be made only by a herd of a thousand or more sheep, all blatting in different keys—or by a distant band playing monotonously upon the middle octave of their varied instruments.
“Slim’s right, by gracious! It’s sheep, sure as yuh live.” Andy did not wait for more, but started at a fast walk for the stable and his horse. After him went the Native Son, who had not been with the Flying U long enough to sense the magnitude of the affront, and Slim, who knew to a nicety just what “cowmen” considered the unpardonable sin, and the rest of the Happy Family, who were rather incredulous still.
“Must be some fool herder just crossing the coulee, on the move somewhere,” Weary gave as a solution. “Half of ’em don’t know a fence when they see it.”
As they galloped toward the sound and the smell, they expressed freely their opinion of sheep, the men who owned them, and the lunatics who watched over the blatting things. They were cattlemen to the marrow in their bones, and they gloried in their prejudice against the woolly despoilers of the range.
All these years had the Flying U been immune from the nuisance, save for an occasional trespasser, who was quickly sent about his business. The Flying U range had been kept in the main inviolate from the little, gray vandals, which ate the grass clean to the sod, and trampled with their sharp-pointed hoofs the very roots into lifelessness; which polluted the water-holes and creeks until cattle and horses went thirsty rather than drink; which, in that land of scant rainfall, devastated the range where they fed so that a long-established prairie-dog town was not more barren. What wonder if the men who owned cattle, and those who tended them, hated sheep? So does the farmer dread an invasion of grasshoppers.
A mile down the coulee they came upon the band with two herders and four dogs keeping watch. Across the coulee and up the hillsides they spread like a noisome gray blanket. “Maa-aa, maa-aa, maa-aa,” two thousand strong they blatted a strident medley while they hurried here and there after sweeter bunches of grass, very much like a disturbed ant-hill.
The herders loitered upon either slope, their dogs lying close beside them. There was good grass in that part of the coulee; the Flying U had saved it for the saddle horses that were to be gathered and held temporarily at the ranch; for it would save herding, and a week in that pasture would put a keen edge on their spirits for the hard work of the calf roundup. A dozen or two that ranged close had already been driven into the field and were feeding disdainfully in a corner as far away from the sheep as the fence would permit.
The 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 ’em 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 today,” 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 ’em 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