CHAPTER IV
SANDY GIVES DONALD A LESSON

"You put me verra much in mind of one of my collies—I declare if you don't!"

The boy chuckled.

"It is all so different from anything I ever saw before, Sandy. I am finding out so many things! Why, until yesterday I thought sheep were just sheep—all of them the same kind. Father mentioned Merinos, and I supposed they were all Merinos."

"Well! Well! And so you have found out that they are not all the same kind? How many kinds have you learned about, pray?"

Donald took Sandy's banter in good part.

"You needn't laugh, Sandy," he said. "Lots and lots of our sheep are Merinos, aren't they?"

"Aye, laddie. Merinos are a good sheep for wool-growing. They are no so bonny—having a wrinkled skin and wool on their faces; they are small, too. But their coat is fine and long, and they are kindly. The American Merinos are the best range sheep we have, because they are so hardy and stay together so well. Some sheep scatter. It seems to be in their blood to wander about. Of course you can't take sheep like that on the range. They would be all over the state."

"I should think it would be a great bother to cut the wool from a Merino when he is so wrinkly," suggested Donald thoughtfully.

"You show your wit—it is a bother. It takes much longer to clip them than it does a smooth-skinned sheep. Besides, their fleece is heavy, for it contains a great deal of oil—or as we call it, yolk. But have done with Merinos. What others did you learn about?"

"One of the herders told me about the Delaine Merinos and showed me the long parallel fibers in their wool; he also pointed out a French Merino, or—or—a——"

"Rambouillet!" laughed Sandy. "I was waiting to hear you twist your tongue around that word. It took me full a week to learn to say it, and even now I never say it in a hurry. We have many a French Merino here; they belong, though, to quite a different family from the other Merinos. You will find them a much larger sheep, and their wool coarse fibered. They are great eaters, these French Merinos."

"Like me!" cried Donald.

"Verra like you!" agreed Sandy. "But it is no so easy filling them up. Why, they will eat a whole hillside in no time. They can beat you, too, on staying out in all sorts of weather. Here in Idaho we generally have fairly mild winters, so our sheep can be out all the year round. We have a few shacks down in the valley where we can shelter them if we have cold rains during the season. They feed down there along the river, eating sage-brush and dried hay from fall until spring. It is often scant picking, but if it is too scant we give them grain, alfalfa hay, or sometimes pumpkins."

"Why, I never dreamed they stayed out all winter!" ejaculated Donald, opening his eyes.

"In a state where it is as mild as this one they can. Then in the spring when the shearing, dipping, and all is done, we start for the range. We never go, though, until the sun has baked the grass a while, for if the herd crops too early the sheep pull at the new shoots that are just taking hold in the soil and up they come—roots and all. Then in future you will have no grass—just bare ground. Very early grass is bad for sheep, too."

"What do people do where there are no ranges, Sandy?"

"Their sheep are kept in great fenced-in pastures and fed from troughs or feeding racks. They have alfalfa hay, turnips, rape, kale, corn, pumpkins and grain. The range sheep are the hardiest, though. Sheep were made to climb and scramble over rocky places, and they are stronger and healthier for doing it."

"I'd rather be a range sheep!" declared Donald.

"And I!" agreed Sandy promptly. "But you're no through telling me about the sorts of sheep you learned about. Didn't anybody tell you about the Cotswolds?"

Donald shook his head.

"Oh, that's a sad pity. They are such big, grand fellows with their white faces and white legs. And dinna forget the Lincolns. You will have no trouble in knowing a Lincoln. They are the heaviest sheep we have, and their wool is long. A Lincoln is handsome as a painting; in fact I'd far rather have one than some of the paintings I've seen. You want to get sight of one when its fleece is full! We have a scattering, too, of Leicesters and Dorset Horns, but the Dorsets are such fighters that I dinna care much for them. They will even attack the dogs."

"I never heard of sheep doing that!"

"Now and again they will, but not often."

Sandy paused and began to whistle softly to himself.

"Are—are those all the kinds of sheep, Sandy?" ventured Donald at last, after he had waited for some time and there seemed to be no prospect of Sandy coming to the end of his tune.

"All! Hear the lad! All! Indeed and that's not all! There are Cheviots from the English and Scotch hill country. You've had a cheviot suit, mayhap. Yes? Well, that's where you got it. Then there is the Tunis and the Persian. California, Nevada, and Texas raise Persians. They are a fat-tailed sheep. We never went in for them here. In England you will find a host of other sorts of sheep that are raised on the English Downs; most of them are short-haired and are raised not so much for their wool as for their mutton. There are Southdowns, Hampshire Downs, Sussex, Oxfords, Shropshire Downs, and the Dorset Horns. We always like some Shropshires in our herd."

"Oh, Sandy," groaned Donald with a wry smile, "I never, never can remember all these kinds."

"Dinna shed tears about it, laddie. The wool will keep growing on their backs just the same. But it's likely that you'll never again be thinking that a sheep is just a sheep!"

"Indeed I shan't!"

"As for myself," went on Sandy, "I like all kinds; I like the smell of them, and being with them on the range. You'll like the range, too, if your father lets you go. You'll like the big sky, the crisp air, and the peace of it."

"I hope he will let me go."

"Dinna fear! We will ask him to-night or to-morrow. Thornton will be back to-morrow. Then we'll be getting ready the wagons and our own kit."

"What wagons?"

"Did you no see the canvas-topped wagons in the barn? Verra like gipsy wagons they are. We call them prairie schooners because they are the sort of wagon the first settlers crossed the country in. Ships of the Desert they were indeed! In the West we use them even now. When we go to the range three of these wagons go along part way and carry the food, establishing what we call central camps. From these camps provisions are brought to us."

"Don't you come down for your food!" exclaimed Donald, aghast.

"Nay, nay! Never a bit! When we are off, we're off! We never turn back until fall. Our food is sent to us on the range three times a week. A camp-tender comes on horseback bringing supplies on a packhorse or on a little Mexican burro. If we are not too far up in the hills this tender fetches the food all the way; if we are, he leaves it in some spot agreed upon and we go down and get it, leaving the flocks in care of the dogs. The schooners stay near enough to the home ranch so they can go back and forth now and then and get restocked. We ourselves take a few pots and pans to the range—just enough so we can cook our meals. It is like camping out anywhere else."

"I love camping!" cut in Donald.

"Then you'll like the range for certain."

"I know I shall. I hope I can go. What a lot I am learning, Sandy! Pretty soon I shall know more about sheep-raising than father does!"

"Dinna fret yourself about your father," was Sandy's dry retort. "He needs no pity. He can take care of himself."

Tom Thornton, however, did not seem to agree with Sandy's estimate of his employer. The moment he was back from Glen City he sought out Mr. Clark who, with Donald, was sitting before the fire in the barren living-room.

"The clip is off for the East at last, Mr. Clark," he said. "It is likely you will be following it soon yourself now that you have cast your eye over the ranch and found it running all right. Have you come to any decision as to who you'll appoint as manager?"

Thornton glanced keenly at the ranch owner as he put his question.

"I do not think I shall appoint any manager at present, Thornton," replied Mr. Clark slowly. "I am in no haste to return East. Donald and I are enjoying our holiday here tremendously and for a while, at least, I think I shall stay and manage Crescent Ranch myself."

Thornton drew a quick breath.

It was evident that he was amazed and none too well pleased.

"It is hard work, sir—especially when you are not used to it."

"I am accustomed to hard work."

"The men will take advantage of you, sir—if I may be so bold as to say so. They know you were not brought up to sheeping. They will impose on you and shirk their duties."

"I am not afraid, Thornton," was the calm reply. "I have had a chance to test what they would do when they were dipping the sheep. It was as thorough a piece of work as one would wish to see done, and went smoothly as a sled in iced ruts. I never saw better team-work. Sandy directed things most ably."

"Sandy does well enough at times," was Thornton's grudging answer, "but you are depending on him too much. You may regret it later."

"I doubt it."

Thornton turned.

"Wait and see," was his curt reply.

After he had gone out Donald rose and came to his father's side.

"Thornton doesn't like Sandy, father."

"I am afraid he doesn't, Don."

"Why?"

"Think of a reason."

"Because Sandy is the son of Old Angus—is it that?"

"Possibly," responded Mr. Clark, "and yet I think it is not wholly that."

"Because Sandy is so good?"

"Perhaps."

"Because we both like Sandy so much?" persisted the boy.

"I shouldn't wonder."

"Well, I don't see how any one could help liking Sandy! He is the best man on the place. He knows so much, and is so full of fun, father! And he is so kind to his dogs and to the sheep! Why, I believe he loves every sheep on Crescent Ranch."

"I am sure of it."

There was a silence.

"Father," burst out Donald when he could bear the silence no longer, "I believe Thornton wants you to appoint him manager of our ranch."

Mr. Clark's face lighted with pleasure.

"I am glad to hear you call it our ranch, Don," he said. "I want you to grow up and go to college and afterward I wish you to choose some useful work in the world. Whatever honorable thing you elect to do I shall gladly help you to carry out. But if it happened—not that I should ever urge it—but if it happened that by and by you wanted to take part of the care of this ranch on your shoulders it would make me very glad."

"I am sure I should like to," cried Donald impulsively.

"No, no," his father responded, shaking his head. "Do not give your word so thoughtlessly. It is a serious matter to choose what you will do in life. You must take a long time to think about it—years, perhaps. You are only fourteen. There will be many an idea popping in and out of your head between now and the time you are twenty. Just stow the thought away; take it out sometimes, turn it over, and put it back again."

"I will, father."

"And now, just for a moment, let us suppose you really are twenty and are helping me with the ranch. The first thing we should be doing now would be trying to make up our minds about this new manager."

"Yes, I suppose we should."

"What should you say about that?"

"I wouldn't appoint Thornton, father!"

His father smiled at the instant decision.

"You must not be so positive in condemning Thornton, Don. We must be careful that we are right before we turn him down. To have the care of Crescent Ranch is a responsible position. We want a faithful man—somebody we can trust when we are in the East; somebody who will run the ranch exactly as if we were here."

"Thornton wouldn't!"

"That is what I am trying to find out," Mr. Clark said.

"Have you anybody in mind, father—anybody beside Thornton?"

Mr. Clark fingered his watch-chain.

"I am watching my men, Don. It is the little things a man does rather than the big things that tell others what he is. Remember that. Watch the little things."

"I didn't know you were watching anybody at all," avowed Donald. "You did not seem to be doing much but wander round and have a good time."

"I am glad of that," answered his father.

CHAPTER V
THORNTON HAS A REPRIMAND

Donald had now been long enough at the ranch so that he had discovered a number of ways in which he could be of use. Most of his efforts, to be sure, were confined to aiding Sandy; but as Sandy had almost more work than he could do he greatly appreciated the boy's help. Donald carried meal to the feeding-troughs, fed the dogs, ran errands, and carried messages from one pasture to another. He was not a little proud when one day Sandy bestowed on him the title of first assistant. To think of being the assistant of Sandy McCulloch! Donald's heart bounded! Of course he got tired. The days were long and the work was real. It was, however, good wholesome work in the open air—work that made his muscles ache at first and then grow steadily stronger.

One evening after he had put in an unusually active day and was sitting in the lamplight with his father Sandy came to the door of the room and asked:

"Might I come in and speak to you and Donald, Mr. Clark?"

Mr. Clark laid down his book. He always enjoyed a talk with Sandy.

"Certainly," he answered. "Come up by the fire, Sandy. The chilly evenings still hang on, don't they?"

"They do so. I'm thinking, Mr. Clark, that now Thornton is back again it is time I started for the range. Some of the herders have gone already, as you know; the rest will be off to-morrow. I ought to be getting under way soon if I want to land my flock in high, cool pasturage before the heat comes."

"Very true, Sandy. I have kept you behind because your aid in starting off the wagons and the other herders was invaluable. But, as you say, there is no need to detain you longer. How soon could you get away?"

"I could start to-morrow if I had my permit."

"How is that?"

"As you remember, sir, we must have permits to graze on the range. You have paid enough money to the government to realize that."

"Yes, indeed. And I never grudge the money, either."

"What are permits, Sandy?" put in Donald eagerly.

"Well, laddie, long ago people who raised horses and sheep wandered over all the mountainsides with their herds, and fed them wherever grass was plenty. It was free land. Anybody could graze there. It was a fine thing for a man with thousands of sheep not to have to pay a cent for their food, wasn't it?"

"Of course."

"You would have thought there would have been enough for everybody to feed their stock peaceably, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, indeed!"

"Well now, it didn't work out so at all. The sheepmen and the cattlemen came to actual war. The cattlemen declared that their herds would not graze where the sheep had been because of some queer odor the sheep left behind them; they argued, moreover, that sheep gnawed the grass off so close to the roots that they destroyed the crop and left barren land. The sheepmen, on the other hand, complained because the cattle—loving to stand in the water—waded into the water-holes and spoiled them. Each faction tried to crowd the other off the range. Dreadful things happened. Vaqueros, or cowboys, would dash on horseback right into the midst of a flock and scatter the sheep in every direction. Often many of the sheep fled into the hills and their owners never could find them again. Or sometimes the cowboys would drive the sheep ahead of them over high precipices. Cattlemen, being on horseback, had a great scorn for sheep-herders, who were obliged to trail their flocks on foot. The feud between the two varieties of stock-raisers became worse and worse."

Donald listened breathlessly.

"More men took up stock-raising as time went on, and in consequence more herds were turned onto the range. Soon the results began to show. The young trees of the forest lands were trampled down, or nibbled and destroyed; water-holes, which the settlers had used as their water supply, began to be polluted; homesteaders, who had built houses and settled in the sheep-raising districts, were driven off the range and had no place where they could be sure of feeding their flocks. The worst evil, though, was that one band of sheep after another would feed in the same spot. The first flock would nip off the top of the grass; the next flock had to eat it closer in order to get food enough; and when the last flocks came they burrowed into the earth with their sharp noses and dug the grass up by the roots. Whole stretches of land that had once been green and beautiful were left bare so that nothing would grow on them for years and years. Cattle do not eat the turf so close as that, and I do not wonder that the vaqueros complained, do you?"

"I should think they would have!" agreed Donald heartily.

"Then, too, the sheep have small, sharp hoofs, you know; these hoofs cut through the soil so that if many sheep travel over a place they grind the earth to powder. Well, that is just what happened. The sheep left the hillsides nothing but patches of brown dust. Things went on from bad to worse until our government stepped in."

Donald kept his eyes intently on Sandy's face.

"What could our government do?" he asked earnestly.

"Well, it could do a good many things, and it did. First, it took about 160,000,000 acres of land as National Forests. It was no longer free pasture. It belonged to the United States."

"I should think the herders would have been pretty cross about that!"

"They were. You can see just how they felt. They made their living by raising stock, and to be deprived of pasturage angered them. At first the government intended to stop all herds from feeding in these National Reserves. They thought it was time to protect the forests that we might not have floods, landslides, and forest fires. They called it conserving the forests. Afterward, though, they considered that the western people made their living by raising cattle and sheep, and they worked out a plan whereby every owner who wanted to graze on the range should pay a certain sum to the United States Government for a permit, and should be allotted a particular pasture for his herd. The only restriction was that if an owner was granted a permit he must promise to obey the rules of the range. It was a wise and just arrangement. Only a certain number of sheep are now allowed to graze on a given area; there is therefore plenty of grass and no need for the flocks to eat the herbage down close and destroy it. The money for the permits, in the meantime, goes to the government, and enriches the United States treasury. Much of this money is spent in paying men to work on the range and better the conditions there, so really it comes back to the people who pay it."

"I understand," Donald replied quickly, when Sandy paused for breath. "It is very interesting isn't it, father? But I do not see how they can prevent herders who have no permits from grazing on the range."

"They ought not to have to prevent them!" answered Sandy, hotly. "The herders ought to be decent enough to obey the law. If you are granted a favor you ought to be a gentleman in accepting it. Now I'm born of generations of shepherds—poor country folk they were, too; but my people ever had a sense of honor—they were gentlemen."

Sandy drew himself up and threw back his head as he spoke the words.

"I cannot imagine a McCulloch being anything but a gentleman, Sandy," said Mr. Clark, who had been listening carefully to Sandy's story of the range.

Sandy was pleased.

"It's many would not think so, Mr. Clark," he replied, as he stretched out his rough, brown hands.

"One can tell nothing from hands," laughed Mr. Clark. "The heart is the thing that tells the tale. A clean, honest heart makes a gentleman, and no one is a gentleman without it."

"But you are not telling me how they kept the herders without permits off the range," put in Donald mischievously.

"I almost forgot. The question always ruffles me. You did a bad thing to stir me up about it. I'll tell you. The United States had to put soldiers on the range—think of it—soldiers to protect the government from its own people! And when the government was working to help those very people, too. They called these soldiers rangers. It was their duty to patrol the dividing line of the National Reserves. Every herder who passed in must show his permit and let the ranger see that he had with him no more sheep than he ought to have. That was fair, wasn't it?"

"Perfectly!" nodded Donald.

"Alack! It is a sad thing that there are people in the world who do not love their country well enough to obey her laws. If they are too stupid to see the laws are for their good why can't they trust the government? Here the government was going to give the herders better pastures and keep their flocks from being molested in them. Wouldn't you think a man with a grain of sense would see the wisdom of the plan!" Sandy's temper began to rise once more. "But no! The herders just felt the rangers who had been stationed to carry out the laws were enemies who had taken away their freedom. So when the rangers did not see them they tried every way to steal into the reserves without permits. Two men would start with their flocks; one would take the attention of the ranger by showing his permit and while the ranger was busy with him the other man would slide into the reserve far down the line where he was not noticed."

"What a mean trick!" cried Donald. "And what if the ranger happened to see him?"

"Oh, he would gallop after him and ride into his flock, scattering it every which way as he tried to drive the sheep out of the reserve. Often the herder would lose hundreds of them."

"Served him right!"

"That's what I think, too," grinned Sandy. "The like are not all dead yet either—worse luck! And this brings me back to the matter of my permit, Mr. Clark. We are two permits short, sir. The new herds that came from Kansas City are not counted into our old rating. Did you think of that? Having more sheep this year we must pay in more money. You didn't happen to remember, did you, to get permits for those extra flocks?"

"No, Sandy, I didn't; but of course Thornton has attended to it. See, here he comes. We will ask him. Thornton," he called, as the big fellow passed the door, "what are we going to do about permits for the new herds? They are not included in the tax we now pay."

"Don't you worry about more permits, Mr. Clark. I can save you a penny on that," declared Thornton with a knowing wink. "You pay the government enough as it is. Leave it to me, sir. I'll see that the herds get into the range all right, and that it costs you no more. When Sandy goes in he can talk with the ranger. All the rangers know him and they never will suspect him. In the meantime Owen can take the Kansas City herd and slip in further down the line. There is no danger of our being caught. Many a herder has done it and had no trouble."

"There will be no sliding sheep into the reserves without permits while I own Crescent Ranch, Thornton," said Mr. Clark sternly. "We will pay what we owe the government or we will keep fewer sheep."

"I was only trying to save you money, sir," Thornton hastened to explain.

"You took a very poor method to do it," was Mr. Clark's cold reply. "The money part of wool-growing is not your care. You are here to raise sheep in conformity to the laws of your country."

"A mighty poor set of laws they are," grumbled Thornton sullenly.

"You may not like them, but they are for your good nevertheless, and since you are an American it is up to you to obey them. I keep no man in my employ who is not—before everything else—a good citizen."

Thornton flushed, but made no reply.

Then darting an angry glance at Sandy from beneath his shaggy brows, he left the room.

CHAPTER VI
DONALD'S FIRST ADVENTURE ON THE RANGE

"I am convinced that you could be with no better young fellow in the world, Don, than to be with Sandy McCulloch," replied Mr. Clark warmly. "Yes, I am going to let you go. I want you to help Sandy, however, all that you can. You must not be an idler and make extra trouble. You must take hold and do part of the work if you go. Do not think," he added kindly, "that I consider you a lazy lad, for you are far from it. You have been a great help on the ranch since you came. I have not been ignorant of many thoughtful things that you have been doing to help. I simply wish to remind you that on the range Sandy will have all he can do. In the midst of your pleasure do not forget your obligation to be useful. If you keep your eyes open you will see things that you can do, just as you have seen them here. You will have a thoroughly good time on the range, and I am glad to have you go. A little later I may want you to come back to the ranch to help me. You will be willing to do that, won't you?"

"Of course, father, I'll come whenever you send for me!" was the instant response. "But what are you going to do while I am gone? Can't you come too?"

"I'm afraid not. I do not see how I can leave things here just now. Provisions must be portioned out and sent to the central camps. Then there are many repairs to be made and I must attend to those. I wish, also, to look over the books while I am here. You see I have plenty to do. When I get my work done I may ride up into the hills and join you and Sandy."

"I wish you would," answered Donald. Then he added thoughtfully: "Father, if I stayed and helped you, could you get away any sooner?"

The older man smiled at the boy.

"That is generous of you, Donald boy. I appreciate it. No, I do not see how you could help me by remaining. You go with Sandy and when I need you I will send for you. In the meantime Thornton and I will get on very well here."

"Thornton! Isn't he going to the range with one of the new herds?"

"Not at present. There is a great deal of work to be done here. I prefer to keep him to help me."

"I wish you would have somebody else to help you and let Thornton take the herd, father."

"I think he is better here."

"Very well. You know best," declared Donald. "Shall you really feel all right if I go with Sandy?"

"Yes, indeed. I want you to learn every phase of ranch life that you can. Then if anything ever decided you to take up wool-growing as a business you would come to it with a knowledge I never had. It would be far more interesting on that account. If, on the other hand, you decided on some other work in life you at least would have learned something of one of the great industries of our country and would be a broader-minded citizen in consequence."

"I am sure I should, father. Why, ever since I have seen how big America is I am lots prouder that I am an American."

His father smiled at his enthusiasm, then added gently:

"Yes, but size is not everything. It is what a country is doing, or trying to do, to better the conditions of her people that makes her truly great. You know some of the things that are done to make life happy, healthful, and comfortable for those who live in our cities. Now go out on the range. Look about you. See all that thoughtful, far-seeing men are doing to protect our forests, hillsides, streams; see how our government is entering into the life of those who live not in cities but on farms and ranches. You will find our country is doing much on the range beside merely issuing permits for us to graze there."

"What sort of things?"

"Sandy knows; he'll show you. In spite of the fact that he was born a Scotchman he is as good an American as I know. He appreciates the benefits of this wonderful land enough to desire to be a helpful, law-abiding citizen. He does not accept all the advantages America offers without giving something in return, you see."

"Sandy is too proud to take everything for nothing, father."

"He is also too honest, son. Now go and get your camping traps together. I expect by afternoon to have a telegram that will answer in place of permits until they can be mailed to us. As soon as they come you and Sandy can start off; and in case they do not come to-day I can send them after you by a mounted messenger. So I think you'd better set out anyway. Wear your tramping shoes and carry your sleeping-bag. You better ask Sandy if there is anything else he wants you to take."

Donald needed no second bidding.

He was in the highest of spirits.

An hour later and he had said good-bye to his father and Thornton, and was on his way to the range with Sandy McCulloch. At their backs a band of about two thousand sheep ambled along, the four dogs, Robin, Prince Charlie, Colin, and Hector, dashing in and out among them to keep the stragglers well in the path.

The trail Sandy was following led across the open fields and ascending gradually, made for the chain of low hills faintly outlined in the far-away blue haze. Beyond these hills loomed more distant mountains, their tops capped with snow. These mountains, Sandy told Donald, were the foot-hills of the Rockies.

It was quite evident that Sandy was now in his element. He swung along with slow but steady gait, carrying his pack easily and swinging his staff. His eye was alert for every movement of the flock. Now he would turn and draw some straying creature into place by putting his crook around one of its back legs. Sometimes he would motion the dogs to drive the herd along faster.

To an eastern-bred lad who had lived all his life in a city the scene was wonderfully novel. The great blue stretch of sky seemed endless. How still the country was! Had it not been for the muffled tramp of hoofs, the low bleating of the herd, the flat-toned note of the sheep-bells, there would not have been a sound. The quiet of the day cast its spell everywhere. Sandy, who was usually chary enough of his words, preserved even a stricter silence. Although his lips were parted with a contented smile, only once did he venture to break the quiet and that was when he softly hummed a bar or two of "There Were Hundred Pipers"—a favorite song of his.

At last Donald, who was bubbling over with questions, could bear it no longer.

"Are you always so quiet, Sandy, when you go to the range?" he asked.

The Scotchman roused himself.

"Why, laddie, I was almost forgetting you were here! Aye, being with a flock is a quiet life. You have nobody to talk to on the range—nobody except the dogs; so you fall into the way of thinking a heap and saying but little. I like it. Some herders, though, find it a hard sort of existence. Many a man has sat alone day after day on the range, watching the sheep work their way in and out of the flock until in his sleep he could picture that sea of gray and white moving, moving, moving! It was always before him, sleeping or waking. It is a bad thing for a shepherd to get into that state of mind. We call it getting locoed."

"What does that mean?"

"You must know that on the hills grows a weed called loco-weed. Sometimes the sheep find and eat it, and it makes them dull and stupid—you know how you feel when you take gas to have your teeth pulled. Yes? Well, it's like that. We never let the herd get it if we can help it, and if they do we drive them away from it. They will go right back again, too, and eat more if you do not watch them. That's what loco-weed is."

"And the shepherds?"

"When a man gets dull and stupid by being alone so much, and sees sheep all the time—even when his eyes are shut—the best thing he can do is to leave the range. Some folks can stand being alone, others can't. Why, I have known of herders being alone until they actually wouldn't talk—they couldn't. They didn't want to speak or be spoken to and were ready to shoot any one who came upon them on the range and disturbed them. Once I knew of a herder leaving a ranch because the boss said good-morning to him. He complained that things were getting too sociable."

"I should think the herders would like to see people when they are alone so much."

"Aye. Wouldn't you! But no. In Wyoming there is a law that no herder shall be sent out alone to tend flocks; men must go in pairs. More than that they must have little traveling libraries of a few books. The reason for that is to prevent them from sitting with their eyes fixed vacantly on the moving sheep all the time. It is a good law. Some time, likely, they will have it in all the states."

"I mean to tell father about it. We could do that at our ranch easily," said Donald. "Do you get lonely on the range, Sandy?"

"Nay, nay, laddie. It is many a year that I have been alone on the hills. I love it. There is always plenty to do. Sometimes I play tunes on my harmonica. Again I'll spend weeks carving flowers and figures on a staff. Then I have my dogs, and they are rare company. I sleep a good part of the day, you know, and watch the flock at night."

"But I should think you would sleep at night."

"I couldn't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because there is more danger to the sheep at night. It is then that the wild creatures steal down and attack the herds."

"Wild creatures?"

"Bears, bob-cats, cougars, and coyotes."

"On the range!" cried Donald.

"Where else?"

"But I never thought of such animals being on the range!" murmured the boy.

Sandy flashed him a smile.

"You're no in a city park here, laddie," he observed emphatically. "There are all sorts of prowling creatures abroad at night. They are not after us—never fear. It is the poor, helpless sheep they are after."

"Do you suppose, Sandy, that I shall see a bear?" asked Donald, his eyes sparkling.

"Verra likely. For your sake I hope you may; for the sake of the herd I hope not. I have seen many on the range and have shot not a few. Down at the ranch I have a long chain made of bears' claws."

Donald's eyes opened wider and wider.

"I'd like to see a bear," cried he. "Just see him, you know—not have him hurt the sheep."

"Mayhap you'll get your wish."

Thus—now talking, now lapsing into big, silent pauses, Donald and Sandy jogged on. At sundown they stopped for the night near a water-hole and here the flock was refreshed by a draught from a clear mountain stream. Then Sandy unpacked his saucepans, built a fire, and fried bacon which he laid—smoking hot—between two slices of bread. Was ever a meal so delicious, Donald wondered! Supper finished, the little portable tent was set up, more wood heaped on the fire, and the camp pitched for the night. Donald was tired out. After the sheep were bedded down around them, he crept only too gladly into his sleeping-bag and was soon oblivious of the range, the herd, and even Sandy himself.

When he awoke it was with a sense of being cramped within a small space. He opened his eyes. It took him a few moments to collect his wits and remember where he was. Ah, yes! Here was the little low tent over his head, and just outside blinked the embers of the fire where he and Sandy had cooked their supper.

He sat up softly and peered out into the night.

The country was flooded with moonlight in the brilliancy of which the ridges of the far-off hills stood out clearly; even the pool in the midst of the pasture caught the radiance and gleamed like a mirror. But amid all the beauty a subtle feeling of solitude oppressed him. It seemed as if he was the only being in the whole world.

Further out he leaned.

Then he started suddenly.

All that great sea of human creatures that had surrounded him when he went to sleep had vanished!

Not a sheep was to be seen.

Thoroughly alarmed, he turned.

"Sandy!" he called. "Sandy!"

There was no reply.

With growing apprehension he thrust out his hand in the direction where the herder had been lying.

The chill of the cold earth met his touch.

Terrified he sprang to his feet and bent down in the darkness.

There was no one with him in the tent! Sandy and the herd were gone!

For a while Donald stood very still. He was really alone, then—alone, miles from the home ranch, and not knowing the way back again! This was his first thought. The next was of Sandy.

All that Thornton had hinted flashed into his mind. Sandy was not to be trusted, Thornton had told his father. If they placed any dependence on the young Scotchman they would some time regret it.

Had Sandy deceived him?

What possible object could he have, Donald asked himself, in so quietly departing with the sheep and leaving him behind?

At least he had left the tent.

Had he taken the food and rifles with him?

With beating heart Donald scrambled for his match-box and made a light.

No, there was the knapsack of provisions, the saucepan, the coffee-pot! In the corner, too, stood his own rifle. But Sandy's rifle was missing.

Donald reflected a moment.

Sandy must be coming back. Ah, that was it! But where had he gone? Why should he rise up in the middle of the night, take the flock and dogs, and steal off in this noiseless fashion? The boy could not solve the enigma.

For the present, at least, there was nothing to be done. He glanced at his watch. It was three o'clock. He turned into his sleeping-bag again, having first taken the precaution to put his rifle within easy reach. Yet try as he would he could not sleep. His eyes stared, broad awake, at the shadowy dome of the tent. He wished it was day.

As he lay there straining his ears for the cadence of approaching herd-bells he was conscious of a muffled sound—a dull, soft footfall, as if some one was loitering stealthily about the tent. He heard it again. Then he could distinctly hear a sniffing at the corner of the tent near which the provisions lay.

Donald's heart leaped to his throat.

He could feel the blood pounding under his ears.

Who was coming so near with that velvety tread?

Noiselessly he wriggled out of his sleeping-bag and stood behind the flap of the tent, rifle in hand. Then he heard the unmistakable panting of some heavy creature—some creature so close to him that he could detect the rhythm of every breath it drew. Shaking in every limb he stole a look outside. Just beside the opening of his shelter he could see, clearly defined in the moonlight, a thick, dark shadow outlined on the grass. It was cast by some beast that was halting near the doorway.

In another second it would be upon him.

The boy caught his breath.

There was no time to think.

Raising his rifle, he fired at the great dark mass. Again he fired!

Had he struck the mark?

Another instant would tell.

The creature would either roll over wounded, or would spring upon him.

He jammed back the trigger of his rifle. The tremor that had swept over him at first now left his hand. His arm was perfectly steady, his blood swinging in quick throbs through his body. He fired a third time.

There was a heavy thud, the rolling of a black mass on the ground, a gasp, a growl! Then all was quiet.

Still Donald dared not take any chances. He poured another round of shot into his victim. It did not move.

Then cautiously he crept outside, his rifle tight in his grasp.

There on the ground a shaggy object lay motionless.

He went nearer.

Then he gave a shout of astonishment.

It was a bear!

He had shot a bear—he, Donald Clark, alone and unaided, had really shot a bear! What a story to tell his father; and Sandy, too; and the fellows at home!

Then, for the first time, he was conscious of a trembling in his arms. His knees felt strangely weak. Now that the excitement was over he realized that he wanted to sit down. His rifle slipped from his fingers and he dropped to the turf. There he rested in a dazed sort of way and reviewed the tragedy. Suppose he had not been awake? Suppose the bear had come into the tent while he lay there asleep and unarmed? In his heart he felt very grateful for his escape.

Then there followed a disquieting thought—suppose there were other bears! He had often read of their coming in groups of fives and sixes. It was no time for him to sit limply on the ground. He caught up his rifle and recharged its empty chambers. Then before the tent door he sat until sunrise, anxiously scanning the dim pasture-land and the distant rocky fastnesses. It seemed as if the day would never come.

Presently across the intervale he caught the faint tinkle of herd-bells. Over the brim of rolling green just ahead of him came the flock, Sandy leading them, and the collies nipping at their heels. The herder strode rapidly forward, waving his sombrero as he came. Donald ran to meet him.

"Are you safe and sound, laddie?" called Sandy when he got within shouting distance. "I have had a thousand minds about you—whether I ought not to have waked you, tired as you were, and taken you with me; or whether it was better to let you sleep. You see when the full moon rose the sheep set out grazing. It's a trick they have. Many a time they have done it; when they once set out no power on earth will stop them. So the dogs and I had to go along too. I reckoned you would sleep until we got back. The herd went farther, though, than I thought they would. I had great trouble rounding them up."

As he talked they neared the camp where Sandy's keen eye took in at a glance every detail of the scene before him. Then he looked sharply at Donald. Under the thick tan the boy could see him pale. His lips became livid.

"Donald, lad, you are not hurt?" he cried, motioning to the bear that lay stretched on the grass.

"No, Sandy, not a bit. Truly I'm not. See! Isn't he a big one?"

"He is many a size too big for a boy like you to be fighting alone. I was a blind idiot to leave you behind me. Thank the good Lord you got off without a scratch. When I think of what might have come to you——! The next time I'll no go grazing without you, Don. But who would have thought of a bear venturing into these lowlands! He must have been very hungry."

Later Donald had to relate every part of his adventure, and they skinned the black bear and spread his hide out in the sun.

"His coat is thicker than that of most bears at this season of the year. It will make a bonny rug for your father's office, Don. When the camp-tender comes we will send it back by him to the home ranch. Thornton can get it cured for you at Glen City and it will be a sightly present for your father. You are a son worth having!"

"I want to be, Sandy."

"Dinna bother your head. I've seen full a dozen lads worse than you!" was the grim reply.