“Father thought that by renting it, the cattlemen would leave him alone. They had all the public domain; and in this way, there couldn’t be any particle of doubt about his being in his rights, both lawfully and from the customs of the range. The rent for it—for a term of years—cost him what little money he had left.
“We’ve been at war ever since. We’ve got to hang on—it’s ruin for father if he quits. If the cattlemen would take the lease off our hands—as is only fair—we might ship off the flock and get out without losing everything; but they won’t do it. They’d sooner shoot and kill our herders. If you hadn’t come along when you did last night—hundreds of sheep would be dead today from the coyotes and cougars. I’m two days early myself—the flock would be practically wiped out before the date I was expected to arrive. They have intimidated or bought up all the labor in the region so we can’t get help—that partly is the reason why I’m doing this work.
“It’s got down now to a simple matter of holding on—for a few months more. In October we start the sheep down—we’ll be nearer the settlements and the protection of law. Besides, a lot of the public domain becomes National Forest on the same date—by an act of Congress—and then there will be a big force of forest rangers here to protect us. If we can stay, and fight them off, and protect the flock until that time—we’ve won. But I’m almost tired of trying.”
Her voice dropped from tone to tone, then ceased. The silence of the wilderness was left. Hugh glanced across the glowing coals, haunted by the girl’s beauty, wondering at the flood of new emotions that swept over him. “I suppose—if I hadn’t happened along—you’d not know where to look for another herder,” he suggested.
She nodded slowly. “It would have pretty near been the end.”
“And what if I should decide—to stay here clear through the summer, clear to the time to take the flocks down to the lower levels.”
She looked up, a strange, brooding concern in her face. “I don’t know that I have a right to ask you,” she said slowly. “This isn’t play, Hugh—it seems so natural to call you that. One man already has been killed. I don’t know that I have a right to ask you to risk your life. But father is old—and he had such high hopes—and it means so much. No, I can’t ask you to stay.”
He leaned forward, more earnestness in his face than had ever dwelt there before. “But what if I wanted to stay—clear to the end?”
A curious luster was in her eyes. “I wouldn’t dare believe it—and I wouldn’t understand.”
“And I’m not sure that I understand, either,” he told her. “But my days have never been much use to me before. It’s the first time I’ve ever had a chance to do something—not only for myself but somebody else—the first time I’ve really had an opening—to do something worth while.”
She thought she understood. She knew the West—this mountain girl—and she knew a certain unfortunate breed of men that often come wandering down its long trails. Mostly they come from the busy cities in the East: human derelicts, men who have broken and failed in the struggle for existence. Sometimes they come looking for new opportunities, sometimes they are merely tramps, the wanderlust in their veins, more than often they are men of good families who have sunk to the lowest levels of life. She marked his well-bred speech, and she thought she knew his type. Her keen eyes saw the deep lines in his face, his bloodshot eyes, and she didn’t understand how Dan’s supply of whisky had been left intact. Possibly Hugh had failed to find it!
Perhaps he would want to go on, in a few more days; yet she couldn’t banish the hope that he was of different stuff than most of his kind. “If you did stay—and help us out—we’d make it right with you in the end,” she promised. No longer was she the employer, speaking from the heights. Her tone was almost pleading. “Perhaps you could buy a share in the business—and get a fresh start in life.”
He suddenly got up and found a curious satisfaction in swinging mighty blows with the axe at the fir log Dan had used for fuel. It acted as a relief valve for emotions that he felt would soon get away from him. He looked up, smiling boyishly. “I’ll stay—to the end,” he promised. “But Lord knows—I don’t know anything about sheep.”
“And you give me fresh heart.”
Thus they made a pact in the firelight, and they had a few moments of sheer joy as she gave him simple directions as to how to take care of the flock, when to salt them, and how to direct their feeding. “And while you’re telling me these things,” the man said, “for Heaven’s sake tell me about Spot.”
“Of course you mean the yearling ram—” Hugh nodded. “You must have learned a lot about sheep in one day—or you’d never have noticed him. Spot is a mystery—has been since he was born. And what has he been doing today?”
Hugh narrated with much enthusiasm the encounter between the flock leader and the coyote, so interested in the story itself that he quite failed to wonder and be amazed at his own unlooked-for lightness of heart, his buoyant spirits.
“It’s typical of Spot,” the girl said at the end. “Perhaps you’ve noticed that he’s oversized—taller and stronger than the rest?”
“Yes—”
“If it hadn’t been for that, he would have likely been lamb stew long ago. He was exceptionally large at birth, and father had him retained partly because he was interested in his unusual coloring, and partly because he thought that his extra size would give him value as a ram. He endeared himself to the herder, and this year—he’s a yearling ram but he’s not yet
