The two of them started to drive the white flocks back to the camp.
XII
As the stars emerged and the little mountain wind sprang up and crept forth in its never-ending explorations of the thickets, the shepherdess explained all things to Hugh’s satisfaction. But first there was supper: a meal the like of which he had never tasted before.
The girl cooked it. Hugh watched her, her swift, graceful motions, the ease and strength with which she went about her tasks, and he found an unlooked-for delight in the sight. She had brought fresh stores; and the meal—from Hugh’s suddenly rejuvenated point of view—was more nearly a banquet. Were there not new potatoes, roasted in the ashes, flapjacks with syrup, a fresh, white-breasted grouse that she had beheaded with her pistol on the way out, and for dessert dried apples stewed to a succulency and tenderness that passed all description? Hugh had eaten some thousands of meals in his time. He had dined in the most famous cafés and restaurants of Europe, he had been at pretentious dinner parties. Yet he couldn’t remember ever experiencing the simple and healthy zest for food, the sheer delight of eating, the amazing appetite that had come upon him now. No meal in his whole life had ever tasted so good or satisfied him more.
In the first place he had done a man’s work. For the first time in recent years his body actually demanded food: plenty of it and soon, for he had missed his lunch; besides, he had that inner peace and satisfaction of a day’s work completed. Then its very preparation made it appetizing—the slim, sure hands of the girl, her brown arms flashing, the fragrant wood smoke, the long, impressive vista of the Rockies behind the camp.
After supper he helped her wash the camp dishes; then cut fir boughs for her bed that was to be situated nearly a quarter of a mile away, across the meadow. The idea of being afraid of him seemingly didn’t even occur to her. She would have slept out the same way had he been from any other class of men, and Hugh could understand how his predecessors had respected her heavy revolver. Then there was a quiet hour with his newfound friend, his pipe—and the girl telling her story in the fire’s glow.
“My father’s name is Crowson—Ezra Crowson,” she began in the direct mountain way. “And mine—out here we don’t bother with last names—is Alice Crowson. You don’t have to call me Miss, Mr. Gaylord—”
“And by the same token,” he replied, “my first name is Hugh.”
“Then Hugh—”
“Then Alice—” And they laughed across the fire. It had become quite easy to laugh at simple, wholesome pleasantries. Yet there was no familiarity here. Alice had told the truth: last names take time; and time, in the West, is precious. Names were designations of people, rather than people the representatives of names. Names didn’t matter and people did.
“Dan called me Alice too,” she went on, suddenly remembering to remind Hugh that he was in the same class, as far as privileges went, with his predecessors. “My father lives down at a place called Horse Creek—and unlike many sheepmen in the West, his whole capital is tied up in this one flock. He isn’t a big sheepman—only a little one. That is what makes it so important that we win.
“He bought the stock from an old friend to whom he had loaned everything he had—and it was either take the sheep or lose everything. He wasn’t an experienced sheepman. Otherwise he wouldn’t have come here—where Landy Fargo and his gang control everything. You see, Hugh, they are cattlemen—managers—and they’re part owners, too—for a number of rich men in the East. For years and years they’ve had everything their own way in regard to the range.
“Maybe, if you’re an Eastern man, you don’t understand about range. The Western stock business depends on having acres and acres of open land for the stock to run in through spring, summer, and fall, feeding them just in winter. The land is either privately owned, public domain, school lands or government national forest: in this case it is—except for this big track we have been using—public domain. Of course the sheepmen had just as much right to it as the cattlemen, but because they wanted to keep all the range for themselves, they’ve driven off every man who tried to run sheep in Smoky Land.
“Oh, it was easy to do. Sometimes they did it just by threatening, sometimes by poisoning the stock, and sometimes—”
Hugh leaned forward. “By killing the herders?”
“Yes.” The girl’s lips set tight. “I didn’t know they would go that far, but Fargo’s got a new right-hand man now—a Mexican named José. He’s used to killing—he learned it in the South—and I haven’t a bit of doubt but that he shot Dan last night. Perhaps they’ve killed before, but before it was always open warfare, at least. They’ve always won—and for all I see they’ll win now.
“You see, as far as public domain is concerned, they’ve got a certain right to oppose the sheepmen. They were the first here, and cattle won’t feed after sheep. But in this case there’s a wide track—almost a whole township—through the center of Smoky Land that isn’t public domain but belongs to an old woman down at Boise. It is the best sheep range in the State, and father found out that the cattlemen weren’t renting it. The old woman had tried to rent it to them, but they wouldn’t take it. We found out why, later. They were using it without paying for it—and they thought that giving any money to this helpless old woman was just throwing it away. Incidentally it was all she had, and because there are no mills here, it is practically valueless except for
