The girl looked puzzled but made no immediate reply. “And you’re not an experienced herder?”
“No. I’ve never worked—I’ve never worked at it before.”
“Then how did you know what to do?”
“I didn’t know. I let ’em do what they wanted to, and followed along.”
Then the girl laughed—for the first time. It was a tinkling, musical sound, inexpressibly girlish, and Hugh laughed boyishly himself. It was their first real moment of understanding; and it seemed to Hugh that a new impulse, a curious sense of impending events, a new stir and vitality had been born in the air. He might have wondered at the freshness and happiness in his own laugh, as much as in hers. It was an hour of miracles.
“You couldn’t have done better—and I needn’t tell you that you’ve probably saved me—and my father—hundreds of dollars. The coyotes and the wolves would have been busy all night and today. I’d be glad enough to pay you well for this time you’ve spent—and give you a steady job if you want it.”
She spoke perfectly naturally, and Hugh knew that his torn and soiled clothes and his unshaven face had done their work. Obviously she never guessed his true position. He wondered how she explained his presence in the hills and his reasons for staying with the sheep.
She did have her own theories, but they were far indeed from the truth. Her mind leaped at once to what seemed to her the most plausible explanation—that Hugh was a humble white man, friend of Pete’s, possibly a laborer out of work, or a hungry wanderer from the East. He had taken the herder’s place in hopes of securing a permanent position when the camp-tender returned.
“Before I decide to stay,” Hugh replied steadily, “I’d like to know a few things.”
“We’ll pay you two dollars a day—and furnish you with supplies,” she assured him soberly.
Hugh did not smile. After all, the wage was an important consideration. The girl was evidently a partner with her father in this sheep-raising venture, and possibly for the sake of economy but probably because of the acute shortage of labor (Hugh had not forgotten the Indian’s words) had worked as camp-tender herself. Her perfect health, her strong, lithe body, a skill with horses and a wholesome scarcity of nonsense in her disposition had enabled her to fill the position well and in all probability to enjoy it.
Hugh studied her face with growing interest. In his sphere of life girls did not drive trains of pack horses into the rugged hills, do a man’s work in the open, have dealings with uneducated herders, and still laugh like silver bells.
She wore, he noticed, a rather heavy revolver slung at her hip. Her hand was small and shapely, but it was also brown and firm. They would make, Hugh thought, a rather dangerous combination. The eyes, wide apart and bright, looked unusually healthy and clear, and Hugh imagined that they could see quite straight over revolver sights. The man understood why she had been able to ply her occupation in safety. Woe to the herder that would presume upon their isolation!
“Labor is scarce, I suppose?” Hugh asked. What he was really trying to find out was how long this position of sheep herder would be thrust upon him. He had yielded himself to enough folly for one day, and he had no intention of committing himself to a position as sheep herder for the rest of his natural life. As soon as they could find a substitute—but Hugh didn’t finish the sentence. He suddenly realized that thence on he had no plans.
The girl looked up, rather sober of face. “Good labor is very scarce,” she agreed honestly. “But we can’t pay more than two dollars a day. You see—you’re inexperienced.”
Secretly he thought that she was bluffing, that she would pay a much higher price to retain him as shepherd of the flock. But he didn’t voice the thought. “Two dollars a day is all right,” he said. “That wasn’t what I was going to ask you. There’s some other things I want to know—that I feel I have a right to know. That man was murdered, and the guide thought it was because of a fight between the sheepmen and cattlemen. I don’t care to have someone come up here and find me murdered, too.”
The girl seemed distressed. It was the first time since their meeting that she seemed to lack words. Then she looked up fearlessly.
“I wish I could tell you differently,” she said. “A sheep woman has no right to be honest, in these days. The Indian told you the truth. Dan was murdered, not for personal reasons, but because the cattlemen—a little, evil group of them—want to destroy this flock of sheep—just why I’ll tell you later. And that’s the chance you must take.”
“It’s a real chance?”
Again she flinched. “They seem to be willing to go to any lengths to beat us.”
“But it’s a chance worth taking,” he said with a sudden lightness of heart. “I’ll keep the job for a while at least.”
He watched her face as he spoke, and he saw the light—as unmistakable as the dawn that he had seen come over the mountains—grow in her face. It was reward enough. The joy that he got out of the work itself was henceforth simply clear profit; for another motive—one that had just come into his life—justified beyond all question the expenditure of his time and the chance of death.
He didn’t try to explain the matter to his own satisfaction. He only knew that he felt a great and resistless desire to help this straight young mountain girl in her venture, to take sides with her against the monstrous odds that opposed her. He had committed himself: he noticed with an inward laugh that the girl
