The Story of Wool Part 13

"Oh, I--don't--know."

"A poor reason. Dinna say that about any man until you get a better one."

Donald colored.

Sandy had dropped many a curt word that had brought the boy up, standing. Whatever else the young herder was he was just. Not only did Donald's liking, but his respect for him, increase.

Ah, what happy days they pa.s.sed together! Donald became so attached to the various camps that he hated to leave them. Sometimes he and Sandy would stay in a spot a week, sometimes ten days; then onward and upward over the great plateaus of the mountains they made their way. These flat reaches of pasture-land were like huge steps. It was hard to realize that they were constantly climbing. Yet up, up, up they went! Each camp was several hundred feet higher than the last. As they went on the pasturage became richer, the air cooler. Clear streams from melting, snowy summits rushed along, leaving pathways of music behind them. With a hawk's keenness Sandy chose the most fertile stretches of gra.s.s for the flock.

"The weight of the clip depends on good grazing," he explained to Donald.

"The clip?"

"Aye, the wool. Wool is sold by the pound, you must know. The better the feed, the thicker the wool. We must look out, though, for poisoned meadows. There do be many in this region."

"Poisoned meadows!"

"Fields where poison herbage grows. Hundreds of sheep lose their lives devouring poisonous weeds. Keep your eye out for signs, laddie."

"Signs! Signs up here!"

"Where else? That is one of the many things our United States government does for us. It posts notices of poisoned meadows to warn the grazers on the range."

"That is a pretty nice thing to do!" Donald said.

"Sure enough it is," agreed Sandy. "Some day the survey will have all the water-holes catalogued along with the poisoned herbage, and will then be able to direct herders to the best grazing grounds. That is what the government is busy trying to do now."

"And yet sheep-owners kick at paying for permits," exclaimed Donald.

"Why, lots of that permit money must come back in this way to the very men who pay it."

"For certain! And mind what I'm telling you--you will see more things that the government is doing for the herders when you get higher up. You will see great pastures fenced in with coyote-proof wire--pastures to be used in lambing time so the young creatures will be safe from prairie-dogs."

"Do you have coyotes on the range?"

"Do we? Do we? Folks would know you for a tenderfoot right off if they heard you ask that question! The coyote, I'd have you know, is the pest of the sheepman. He's the meanest critter--but there, why be talking?

You'll see for yourself soon enough. The government has spent thousands of dollars killing coyotes on these ranges."

"To help the sheep-raisers?"

"So."

"Well, I don't wonder my father wanted Crescent Ranch to pay its full share for permits. Since we are getting all these advantages, we ought to bear our part of the expense, oughtn't we?" said Donald.

"That's my feeling. We ought to be proud, too, we are bearing it. It's a grand country! I wasn't born here, like you, but I came here as a child, and the bones of my people are here. I mean to live in America and take what it offers, and wouldn't I be the churl not to give the little I can in return! I haven't money, but I can live up to the laws. Scotchman though I be 'twill no hinder me from making a good American of myself."

"Bully for you, Sandy!" cried Donald. Then he added soberly: "I am going to be a better American when I get back home."

"Dinna wait till then, laddie--be a better one now!"

Sandy chanced to be deftly cutting the outline of a thistle on a spruce staff he was carving for the boy. Donald watched him in silence as he worked in the fading light. The sun had set behind the chain of near hills, and the plateau where they were camping was gray with shadows.

Through the dusk they could see the flock lazily browsing among the junipers.

Suddenly there was a cry from Sandy.

He threw down the staff and sprang to his feet.

"The herd!" he shouted. "They're off!"

Sure enough! Without a cry the leaders had started for the rimrock, and in their wake--straight for the face of the precipice--was running the entire flock.

"They're startled!" gasped Sandy. "We must head 'em off. Run for your life! We must get between the brainless creatures and the cliff before they go over."

Donald ran. He had never run so before. His training as a track sprinter stood him in good stead now. But he had never been a long-distance runner. Two hundred yards was his limit. Moreover he was not in training. But he ran--ran as he did not know he could run. He gained on the sheep. Sandy, in the meantime, was waving his arms to the dogs who, understanding his slightest motion, now dashed ahead. The sheep, however, were far in advance by this time. On they sped in mad panic.

Donald could run no more. He began to lag, his heart beating like a hammer. Even Sandy, who from the opposite direction was racing for the edge of the rock, slackened his pace.

The race was a hopeless one.

Then without warning, out of the trees at the left side of the field rode a horseman at full gallop. With flying hoofs he cut in ahead of the herd just as they neared the face of the rock.

The leaders swerved, circled, and turned about. The gait of the stampeding flock lessened. The dogs skilfully steered the approaching sheep out to one side where Sandy scattered them that they might not collide with the ranks coming toward them. Gradually the fears of the flock became quieted. Falling into a walk they worked their way into their customary places and turned about, feeding as they went.

Immediately when Sandy saw them safe he pressed forward to the side of the horseman where he beckoned Donald to join him.

"I spied your plight from the ridge above, Sandy McCulloch," called the rider. "The rest of the Crescent herd has gone in to the Reserve and I have had my eye out for you for days. I thought it was about time that you were coming along."

"It's a good turn you've done me this day, Sargeant," Donald heard Sandy say.

"You have done many a favor for me."

"Dinna be talking. It is little I ever did for you. An errand or two perhaps, or carrying a message--but what is that? Any man would be glad to do the same. To-night, though, you have saved my whole herd. We should not have had a sheep left. Here is Master Donald Clark, the son of our owner," went on Sandy, as Donald came nearer. "Let him thank you.

Don, this soldier is one of the government rangers."

Leaning from his saddle the horseman put out his hand.

"I am proud," he said, "to meet one of the owners of Crescent Ranch. If you are learning about the range, Master Clark, you cannot be in better company than to be with Sandy McCulloch. There is little about sheeping that he doesn't know; nor is there a cleaner-handed herder to be found.

We never need to see his permit or count his sheep. He is no lawbreaker!"

"I hope none of our men are," replied Donald, shyly.

"Crescent Ranch has always had the reputation of being run on the square. We have no complaint to make," was the ranger's answer.

"We--my father means that it shall be," the boy a.s.serted modestly.

"I do not doubt he does. You will have trouble, though, I fear, in finding another manager who can match Old Angus--or even Johnson. They were rare men who were famed throughout the county for their honesty and common sense."

"We shall try to find some other manager as good."

"May you be so fortunate. Good luck to you!"