WHO SANDY WAS
The next morning both Donald and his father were astir early.
There was nothing to keep them within the great chilly house, and
everything to lure them into the sunshine. The sky was without a cloud,
and into its blueness stretched distant ranges of hazy mountains at
whose feet nestled lower hills covered with faint green. Near at hand
patches of meadow were toned to grayish white by grazing bands of sheep.
On the still air came the flat, metallic note of herd-bells, and the
bleating of numberless unseen flocks within the pens and barns.
What a novel scene it was!
The newcomers found their way to a sheltered corner where they could
look out before them into the vastness.
It was all so strange, so interesting!
Somewhere in the ravine below they could catch the rushing music of a
stream which wove itself in and out a maze of rolling hills and was lost
at last in the shadows of the green valleys.
As they stood silent and drank in the beauty about them, an angry voice
broke the stillness.
It came from the interior of the barn near which they were standing.
"I tell you what, Tom Thornton, I'm with Sandy McCulloch. The sheep
always were washed after shearing in Old Angus's day, and in Johnson's
as well. That is how Crescent Ranch came to have the good name it now
holds. There were no scabby sheep here to infect the rest of the herd."
"What's that to you, Jack Owen? You are here to mind the boss, ain't
you? What's the use of our working like beavers for ten days to dip the
flock if we don't have to? Dipping is a dirty, tiresome job. You are not
in for making work for yourself, are you?"
"The flocks will be ruined!"
"What do you care--they are not your sheep."
"Well, I have been on this ranch a long time, Thornton, and I can't help
caring what becomes of 'em. I take the same pride in the place Sandy
does. We have won a reputation here for doing things the way they ought
to be done--for minding the laws--for having clean, healthy stock. Sandy
says he shall dip his herd, anyway."
"Bother Sandy! He's talked to you men until he's got you all upset. You
would have been with me if he had kept his mouth shut. But no matter
what he says I am running this ranch at present. I mean to run it in the
future, too. If you're wise you will do as I tell you."
"Mr. Clark may have something to say about the dipping."
"Don't you fret," sneered Thornton. "I sounded him last night. He's a
tenderfoot. I don't believe he knows a thing about sheeping."
Mr. Clark drew Donald into the sun-flooded field before he spoke.
Then, after a thoughtful silence he turned:
"Well, Don?"
"I wouldn't have that Thornton here another day, father!" broke out the
boy hotly.
"Slowly, son, slowly! We must be sure about Thornton before we condemn
him. He has been ten years on the ranch; more than that, we are without
a manager, and we have none in view. Remember 'he stumbles who runs
fast.' Take time, Don, take time."
Donald flushed.
"I know it is the best way, but I was so angry to hear him talking that
way about you."
"Loyalty is a fine trait, Don." Mr. Clark laid his hand affectionately
on his son's shoulder. "I like to see you loyal. But in this matter we
must move slowly."
"What about this dipping, father? What is it?"
"Something about washing the sheep. I do not clearly understand it
myself."
"Shall you have it done?"
"What do you say?"
"Of course I do not know anything about it," Donald replied modestly,
"but somehow I feel as if Sandy and the men are right."
"I think so too."
"Couldn't I ask Sandy what it is, father?"
"I am thinking of asking him myself, Don, if I get a good chance."
The chance came unexpectedly, for at that very moment Sandy McCulloch
came out of one of the sheep-pens and crossed the walk to the central
barn.
"What are you up to to-day, Sandy?" called Mr. Clark.
"I am going to dip my flock, sir, down in the south meadow."
"I am glad of that, for it will give us a chance to see it done,"
observed Mr. Clark. Then lowering his voice he asked: "Why do you dip
the sheep, Sandy?"
"Are you asking because you want to know?" inquired Sandy with the
directness which characterized everything he said.
"Yes, Both Donald and I wish to learn."
"Well, sir, it is this way. After the shearing is over and the fleece
removed, the coat of the sheep is light and therefore easily dried. We
then take the flocks and run them through a bath of lime and sulphur.
Some shepherds prefer a coal-tar dip. Whatever the dip is made of, the
purpose is the same. It is to kill the parasites on the sheep and cure
any diseases of the eyes. If sheep are not dipped they get the 'scab.'
Some bit of a creature gets under their skin and burrows until it makes
the sheep sick. Often, too, the wool will peel off in great patches. One
sheep will take it from another, until by and by the whole herd is
infected."
Mr. Clark nodded.
"I never mean to let a sickly sheep go on the range," continued Sandy.
"I try to flax round and find out what is the matter with him so I can
cure him. We don't want our herd spoiling the feeding grounds and the
water-holes and giving their diseases to all the flocks that graze after
them. If we are let graze on the range the least we can do is to be
decent about it--that's the way I look at it."
"Have our sheep always been dipped?"
"Aye, sir, that they have--dipped every spring after shearing; then we
clipped their feet before they started for the range. Sheep, you know,
walk on two toes, and if their feet are not trimmed they get sore from
traveling so much. I suppose nature intended sheep to climb over the
rocks and wear their hoofs down that way. They have a queer foot. Did
you know that there is a little oily gland between the toes to make the
hoof moist, and keep it from cracking?"
"No, I guess neither Donald nor I knew that, did we, Donald? Now about
this dipping--do you thoroughly understand how it is done, Sandy?"
"I do that, sir."
Donald wondered why his father was so thoughtful.
"How long have you been at Crescent Ranch, Sandy?" asked Mr. Clark at
last.
"Ever since I was a lad of fifteen, sir."
"That must be about ten years!"
"Fourteen."
A new thought came to Mr. Clark.
"Why, then you must have known Old Angus," he exclaimed.
"I did, sir."
"He was a fine old man, they tell me."
"He was."
"I never saw him--I wish I had. It was a great loss to the ranch and to
all of us when he went."
"It was indeed."
"You must remember him well, Sandy."
Throwing back his head with a gesture of pride, Sandy confronted Mr.
Clark.
"I do, sir," he replied simply. "He was my father."
Mr. Clark and Donald stared.
"Why didn't you tell me that in the first place?" cried Donald's father,
stepping forward eagerly and seizing the hand of the young ranchman.
"I thought mayhap you knew it. If not--why prate about it? It's on my
own feet I must stand and not on my father's. If I am of any use you
will find it out fast enough, father or no father; if I'm not 'twere
best you found that out as well."
"Independent as your forebears, Sandy!" laughed Mr. Clark.
"I be a McCulloch, sir!" was all Sandy said.
[Illustration]