SCOTT ESTIMATES SOME SHEEP AND FIGHTS A NEW FRIEND
The next morning Scott determined to see something of the sheep he had
missed the day before. He hurried through his breakfast and left the
cabin as early as possible. He did not want to be caught by any false
fire report or any other restraining orders. He knew that the grazing
was the most important work on his district and he knew that he would be
held directly responsible for what happened within its boundaries. He
therefore determined to find something about it first hand and not have
to depend entirely on a subordinate whom he could not trust.
It was a beautiful spring day and to Scott, breathing the clear mountain
air and looking out across the glorious sun-bathed valleys, the world
seemed a good place to live in. Already he was becoming accustomed to
the comparative barrenness of the country and was enjoying the rich
coloring of rock and hill which were lacking in his own country. Jed was
still a little nervous in the timber but did not show any tendency to
bolt as he had the night before.
Scott had studied carefully on his map the ranges allotted to the
different herds and knew just how many sheep there should be on each
range. He knew that he could locate those ranges and he wanted to check
up on the number of sheep, for the supervisor had warned him
particularly of the attempt that the stockmen would probably make to run
in extras. He had, however, forgotten that it would require four or five
days for some of the bands to reach their allotted areas, and he did not
realize that it was impossible to count a large number of sheep in the
open, or even to estimate them at all accurately without wide
experience.
He brought Jed to a sudden stand on the crest of a little knoll and
looked with wonder at what appeared to him like a river of sheep on the
slope below him. There were not supposed to be any sheep down there. He
pulled out his map to make sure and his face fell. A posted driveway
crossed the slope at that point and these sheep were on their proper way
to their allotted range. He felt not a little disappointed, for he was
very anxious to have an opportunity to prove an Eastern man’s value and
efficiency in enforcing the grazing rules. He knew from experience that
he would have to have proof, for there was a tremendous prejudice
against him.
He would at least find out whose sheep these were, count them up, and
get acquainted with the herder; they might as well know that he was
keeping tab on them. He rode down to a knoll which almost overhung the
little draw which they would have to take and waited. This would be an
ideal place to count them and size them up.
They moved much more slowly than he supposed, but the leaders finally
straggled into sight and he began to count. It was easy enough at first.
Then a great wave of sheep, the whole width of the draw, hove into sight
at once and surged solidly forward. He missed a hundred or so in trying
to count the width of the column, and no sooner had he decided that
there were about forty sheep abreast than the column suddenly dwindled
to about half its former width. He gave up all idea of counting and
tried to estimate, but it was no use. Sometimes one side of the column
was moving rapidly and the other side standing still. Then all would
move uniformly for a second until for some unknown reason the center
would shoot suddenly ahead while both sides seemed to be backing up.
“Pshaw,” Scott exclaimed in disgust, “you might as well try to count the
drops in a whirlpool.”
“Jest about,” said an amused voice and Scott was startled to find the
herder standing beside him.
“Hello,” Scott greeted him. “I did not hear you come up.”
“Can’t hear much this close to that bunch,” the herder replied nodding
toward the passing sheep.
“No,” Scott said, “I thought I would count them as they went past but I
had to give it up.”
“I reckon so,” nodded the herder. There still seemed to be quite a
twinkle in his eye.
“They are a fine looking lot,” Scott remarked, “How many are there in
your band?”
“They counted sixteen hundred and ten in the chute yesterday,” announced
the herder with an amiable grin.
Scott knew that his permit called for sixteen hundred and the ten extra
would not be excluded. The rear of the band was just going by in the
charge of a faithful collie.
“Seems like a lot of sheep,” Scott remarked absently.
“That’s what the permit calls for, ain’t it?” the herder cried fiercely.
“A government man counted them in, didn’t he?”
Scott was surprised at the man’s sudden heat. “I guess he did,” he
answered in a conciliatory tone. “I simply remarked that sixteen hundred
was a lot of sheep.”
“You can remark all you please but don’t accuse me of running in extras.
I’ve got the permit right here in my pocket.”
The herder spoke with loud defiance and altogether too much vehemence.
Scott felt sure now that there were more than sixteen hundred sheep in
that band, but he knew now that he could never count them in the open
and he wanted more evidence before he was ready to order them back to
the chute for a recount. In the meanwhile he was willing to let the
herder believe that he had bluffed him. “Well,” he said with well
assumed cheerfulness, “the man who counted them knows a lot more about
it than I do. So long,” and he rode away to see another band, leaving
the herder laughing in his sleeve.
Scott rode over to the next driveway and was not long in locating
another band. He avoided the mistake he made the first time of catching
them in a narrow place and selected an open park for his observations.
He waited till the sheep had all spread out contentedly and then rode up
to the herder.
“How are they traveling?” he asked genially.
The herder, a surly looking fellow, was slow to answer. He sized Scott
up slowly and contemptuously. At last he replied sullenly, “I ain’t got
no complaint.”
In the meanwhile Scott was trying to estimate the band by counting a few
and comparing them with the others. “How many are there in this band?
Twenty-five hundred?”
“Some guesser,” the herder snorted. “There were fourteen hundred in the
chute yesterday.”
“I’ll learn after a while,” Scott laughed.
“Fourteen hundred,” he exclaimed to himself as he rode past the band,
“if there are not more than two thousand there I’ll eat them wool and
all.”
Scott felt certain now that there were too many sheep in these bands,
but he wanted to be perfectly sure before he made a move. He visited two
more bands and was strengthened in his impression.
“The thing for me to do now,” he thought, “is to see sixteen hundred
sheep somewhere and find out what they look like.”
With this in mind he determined to ride over to the next district and
see what the bands looked like over there. His way led through the
valley where the fire had been reported the day before. The moist ground
and the fresh green brush made him smile with pity for the ignorance of
the poor chump up on the lookout who had supposed a fire possible.
“Couldn’t start a fire here in a stove,” Scott growled.
The words were hardly out of his mouth when he stopped with a jerk.
There in a small opening in the trees were the remains of a large
bon-fire. He rode over and examined them closely. They were very fresh.
The fire had not been out for more than a day for the ground under the
ashes was still warm. It was undoubtedly the fire that the lookout had
reported the day before. But why had it been built? It was too large for
a camp fire. There was no sign of any cutting, so it was not likely that
it was built to dispose of logging slash. Moreover it was the only one
around there. Scott could not figure it out, but one thing was clear,
there had been a large fire and the lookout was not as large a chump as
he had thought.
He rode on northward into the next district still wondering vaguely
about that mysterious fire. He soon ran into a small band of sheep. The
herder was a young fellow, cheerful and evidently glad to see any one
who might break the monotony of his lonely life.
“Nice little band you have there,” Scott said by the way of
introduction.
“You bet,” the herder responded enthusiastically, “and she’s not so
small neither. Of course they would not be so many for the ‘red
triangle’ or some of the other big fellows, but sixteen hundred sheep is
a good many for one of us little fellows.”
“You don’t mean to say that there are sixteen hundred sheep in that
bunch, do you?” Scott asked in open-mouthed astonishment.
“Yes, siree,” replied the herder in a tone which left no shadow of
doubt, “and every one of them paid for with my own money.”
Scott saw that some commendation was expected. “Good for you,” he
mumbled absently, “they’re a fine bunch. Luck to you.”
He rode on like a man in a trance. There was no doubt about the honesty
of this fellow’s statement. A herder might be a little careless in
estimating the number of his band, but this man owned the sheep himself
and had them counted to the last bunch of wool. Scott glanced back once
more at the feeding sheep. “Great guns,” he exclaimed, “if there are
sixteen hundred there, there must be three thousand in each of those
other bands.” And once more he rode on wondering.
Over the ridge and down in the valley beyond were some more sheep. Again
a small band, much smaller than those in his own district. Scott was so
absorbed in his own thoughts that he did not stop to think how his
abrupt question would sound to the strange herder. “How many sheep are
there in that bunch?” he asked gruffly.
“How many do you suppose?” was the sullen answer. “Think I get a permit
for fifteen hundred and bring in a dozen?”
The sarcastic answer brought Scott to his senses. “I did not mean it
that way,” he said. “I don’t know anything about sheep and I am trying
to learn to estimate them. I was so busy trying to figure it out for
myself that I forgot my manners. I had it figured out that there were
eighteen hundred there.”
“Not on your life,” replied the herder angrily, “I only had fourteen
ninety-eight when I got up here and the coyotes have gotten two more.
There’s just fourteen ninety-six and if you demand a recount I’ll make
you pay for it.”
“I have nothing to do with it,” Scott replied. “I don’t belong in this
district. As I told you I am only trying to guess the size of bands.”
“Come from district one?” the herder asked, suddenly interested.
Scott nodded.
“Didn’t know they even tried to estimate them over there,” the herder
grinned.
“Maybe they didn’t last year,” Scott replied coldly as he turned away,
“but believe me they are going to be estimated this year and then some.”
He knew now that the bands in his own district were outrageously padded,
but how under the sun did they get in there? He was doggedly turning the
question over in his mind when a faint nicker from Jed warned him that
another horse was in sight. He glanced up and saw another patrolman
riding rapidly toward him. He was a fine looking fellow and Scott
considered himself lucky to meet him. Here was where he might pick up
some information which would help him.
“Hello,” Scott called in friendly tone as the other came alongside. A
nod was the only answer.
“My name is Burton,” Scott continued, “I am patrolman in district number
one.”
“I thought so,” said the other without responding to the introduction.
Scott hesitated for a moment but decided to overlook the insult. It
might be simply lack of manners. He had offended another man a few
minutes before without intending to; maybe this man did not mean it
either. So Scott went on, “I rode over here this morning to size up the
bands in this district and I was just looking for some one to give me
some information.” He paused but the other man did not answer.
“Can you tell me why the bands in this district are so much smaller than
ours?”
“You ought to know more about that than I do,” said the other man
coldly.
“How’s that?” Scott asked.
“Well,” said the other with a contemptuous sneer, “we count ours.”
“And we counted ours in yesterday,” replied Scott, beginning to get
angry at the other’s manner.
“Then I suggest that you look in your bank book. That is the only other
explanation I can think of.”
A dull flush spread quickly under the tan of Scott’s face as he slowly
dismounted. He stepped coolly up beside the other’s horse. His eye was
riveted on the other man’s face and when he spoke his quiet voice was as
cold as steel.
“Are you man enough to get off that horse or shall I pull you off?” he
asked steadily.
The other man started as though astonished at the question but sprang
lightly from his saddle and stood calmly facing Scott. He was a
magnificent specimen, two inches taller than Scott, superbly built,
clean cut and a skin that vouched for a well-lived life. Scott did not
know that this man was the local idol of the Service men but his
practiced eye told him that he had drawn no mean antagonist and he
involuntarily sized him up as he talked.
“I came over here,” Scott explained coolly, “a stranger to you. I wanted
some information. I asked you a civil question, and you answered by
accusing me of graft. Your accusation is a lie. Now you can either
apologize to me or fight it out.”
The man hesitated an instant as though in doubt and then said tersely,
“Put ’em up.”
They were both on guard in an instant and these two men who had not
known of each other’s existence five minutes before were fighting like
wild men, because of a little misplaced sarcasm.
Scott had superior skill but it was largely offset by the other man’s
longer reach. They were both in splendid physical condition. Scott was
at one disadvantage; he had not been in the mountains long enough to
become accustomed to the high altitudes and he breathed with difficulty.
He let the other man take the offensive and saved his wind. He received
two or three ugly blows from the other’s long reach when he thought he
was safely out of range, but he was used to punishment and they did not
shake him. The other man was not used to such stubborn opposition; he
had been undisputed champion of the district too long, and his failure
to beat down the other’s guard angered him. He saw that Scott’s breath
was coming hard and he thought to rush him off his feet. He began to
swing wildly.
That was just what Scott had been waiting for. When one man loses his
temper and the other stays cool the result is a foregone conclusion.
Sidestepping a swing that was a little wilder than the others he landed
squarely on his opponent’s chin with all the weight of his heavy
shoulders right behind the blow. The other man’s head snapped back with
a motion like that of a mechanical toy and he crumpled down into a
helpless heap.
It was a mighty blow that no man could have stood up under, but an
outdoor man is hard to kill, and the fellow jumped to his feet almost
instantly, dazed, but showing a frank smile of admiration.
“Now,” thought Scott, “I’ll have to look out for him. As long as he
stayed mad I knew that I had him, barring accidents, but when a man
smiles, look out.”
But the fight was over.
“I knew that I ought to have apologized in the first place,” the man
said with a winning smile, “I was dead wrong and knew it, but I could
not resist the temptation to take you on. I acted like a sucker. You
knocked me down and the honor is yours. You may think I am yellow for
quitting now but the altitude is getting your wind. The old duellers
usually stopped at the first blood. I acknowledge myself in the wrong,
apologize for all my rudeness and would like to shake hands if you will
let me.”
Scott grasped his hand eagerly. “I kind of thought you felt that way,”
he said, “when you hesitated in the first place. Perhaps I was a little
quick on the trigger, but I have had that graft business thrown at me so
often that I could not stand it any longer.”
“Don’t blame you a bit. You are a new man and not responsible for your
predecessors. Wonder you did not jump me when I insulted you the first
time. There was no reason why I should not have responded decently to
your introduction, no matter what I may have thought of you. My name is
Baxter, Yale ’12.”
“Well, I am mighty glad to know that there is a white man so close to me
here,” Scott said earnestly, “for there is something rotten going on in
my district and I need some help.”
“There certainly has been something rotten in your district in the
past,” Baxter agreed, “and I’ll be mighty glad to help you. Let’s eat
lunch here under this tree and talk it over.”
So the two pugilists sat down on the sunny slope and ate lunch together
like long lost brothers.