SANDY GIVES DONALD A LESSON
During the next few days preparations for the range went steadily
forward.
Most of the herders had been so long at Crescent Ranch that they knew
exactly what to do. It was an ancient story to men who had worked under
Old Angus and Johnson.
To Donald, however, everything was new. From morning to night he trotted
after Sandy until one day the young Scotchman remarked with a
mischievous smile:
"You put me verra much in mind of one of my collies--I declare if you
don't!"
The boy chuckled.
"It is all so different from anything I ever saw before, Sandy. I am
finding out so many things! Why, until yesterday I thought sheep were
just sheep--all of them the same kind. Father mentioned Merinos, and I
supposed they were all Merinos."
"Well! Well! And so you have found out that they are not all the same
kind? How many kinds have you learned about, pray?"
Donald took Sandy's banter in good part.
"You needn't laugh, Sandy," he said. "Lots and lots of our sheep are
Merinos, aren't they?"
"Aye, laddie. Merinos are a good sheep for wool-growing. They are no so
bonny--having a wrinkled skin and wool on their faces; they are small,
too. But their coat is fine and long, and they are kindly. The American
Merinos are the best range sheep we have, because they are so hardy and
stay together so well. Some sheep scatter. It seems to be in their blood
to wander about. Of course you can't take sheep like that on the range.
They would be all over the state."
"I should think it would be a great bother to cut the wool from a Merino
when he is so wrinkly," suggested Donald thoughtfully.
"You show your wit--it is a bother. It takes much longer to clip them
than it does a smooth-skinned sheep. Besides, their fleece is heavy, for
it contains a great deal of oil--or as we call it, yolk. But have done
with Merinos. What others did you learn about?"
"One of the herders told me about the Delaine Merinos and showed me the
long parallel fibers in their wool; he also pointed out a French Merino,
or--or--a----"
"Rambouillet!" laughed Sandy. "I was waiting to hear you twist your
tongue around that word. It took me full a week to learn to say it, and
even now I never say it in a hurry. We have many a French Merino here;
they belong, though, to quite a different family from the other Merinos.
You will find them a much larger sheep, and their wool coarse fibered.
They are great eaters, these French Merinos."
"Like me!" cried Donald.
"Verra like you!" agreed Sandy. "But it is no so easy filling them up.
Why, they will eat a whole hillside in no time. They can beat you, too,
on staying out in all sorts of weather. Here in Idaho we generally have
fairly mild winters, so our sheep can be out all the year round. We have
a few shacks down in the valley where we can shelter them if we have
cold rains during the season. They feed down there along the river,
eating sage-brush and dried hay from fall until spring. It is often
scant picking, but if it is too scant we give them grain, alfalfa hay,
or sometimes pumpkins."
"Why, I never dreamed they stayed out all winter!" ejaculated Donald,
opening his eyes.
"In a state where it is as mild as this one they can. Then in the spring
when the shearing, dipping, and all is done, we start for the range. We
never go, though, until the sun has baked the grass a while, for if the
herd crops too early the sheep pull at the new shoots that are just
taking hold in the soil and up they come--roots and all. Then in future
you will have no grass--just bare ground. Very early grass is bad for
sheep, too."
"What do people do where there are no ranges, Sandy?"
"Their sheep are kept in great fenced-in pastures and fed from troughs
or feeding racks. They have alfalfa hay, turnips, rape, kale, corn,
pumpkins and grain. The range sheep are the hardiest, though. Sheep were
made to climb and scramble over rocky places, and they are stronger and
healthier for doing it."
"I'd rather be a range sheep!" declared Donald.
"And I!" agreed Sandy promptly. "But you're no through telling me about
the sorts of sheep you learned about. Didn't anybody tell you about the
Cotswolds?"
Donald shook his head.
"Oh, that's a sad pity. They are such big, grand fellows with their
white faces and white legs. And dinna forget the Lincolns. You will have
no trouble in knowing a Lincoln. They are the heaviest sheep we have,
and their wool is long. A Lincoln is handsome as a painting; in fact I'd
far rather have one than some of the paintings I've seen. You want to
get sight of one when its fleece is full! We have a scattering, too, of
Leicesters and Dorset Horns, but the Dorsets are such fighters that I
dinna care much for them. They will even attack the dogs."
"I never heard of sheep doing that!"
"Now and again they will, but not often."
Sandy paused and began to whistle softly to himself.
"Are--are those all the kinds of sheep, Sandy?" ventured Donald at last,
after he had waited for some time and there seemed to be no prospect of
Sandy coming to the end of his tune.
"All! Hear the lad! All! Indeed and that's not all! There are Cheviots
from the English and Scotch hill country. You've had a cheviot suit,
mayhap. Yes? Well, that's where you got it. Then there is the Tunis and
the Persian. California, Nevada, and Texas raise Persians. They are a
fat-tailed sheep. We never went in for them here. In England you will
find a host of other sorts of sheep that are raised on the English
Downs; most of them are short-haired and are raised not so much for
their wool as for their mutton. There are Southdowns, Hampshire Downs,
Sussex, Oxfords, Shropshire Downs, and the Dorset Horns. We always like
some Shropshires in our herd."
"Oh, Sandy," groaned Donald with a wry smile, "I never, never can
remember all these kinds."
"Dinna shed tears about it, laddie. The wool will keep growing on their
backs just the same. But it's likely that you'll never again be thinking
that a sheep is just a sheep!"
"Indeed I shan't!"
"As for myself," went on Sandy, "I like all kinds; I like the smell of
them, and being with them on the range. You'll like the range, too, if
your father lets you go. You'll like the big sky, the crisp air, and the
peace of it."
"I hope he will let me go."
"Dinna fear! We will ask him to-night or to-morrow. Thornton will be
back to-morrow. Then we'll be getting ready the wagons and our own kit."
"What wagons?"
"Did you no see the canvas-topped wagons in the barn? Verra like gipsy
wagons they are. We call them prairie schooners because they are the
sort of wagon the first settlers crossed the country in. Ships of the
Desert they were indeed! In the West we use them even now. When we go to
the range three of these wagons go along part way and carry the food,
establishing what we call central camps. From these camps provisions are
brought to us."
"Don't you come down for your food!" exclaimed Donald, aghast.
"Nay, nay! Never a bit! When we are off, we're off! We never turn back
until fall. Our food is sent to us on the range three times a week. A
camp-tender comes on horseback bringing supplies on a packhorse or on a
little Mexican burro. If we are not too far up in the hills this tender
fetches the food all the way; if we are, he leaves it in some spot
agreed upon and we go down and get it, leaving the flocks in care of the
dogs. The schooners stay near enough to the home ranch so they can go
back and forth now and then and get restocked. We ourselves take a few
pots and pans to the range--just enough so we can cook our meals. It is
like camping out anywhere else."
"I love camping!" cut in Donald.
"Then you'll like the range for certain."
"I know I shall. I hope I can go. What a lot I am learning, Sandy!
Pretty soon I shall know more about sheep-raising than father does!"
"Dinna fret yourself about your father," was Sandy's dry retort. "He
needs no pity. He can take care of himself."
Tom Thornton, however, did not seem to agree with Sandy's estimate of
his employer. The moment he was back from Glen City he sought out Mr.
Clark who, with Donald, was sitting before the fire in the barren
living-room.
"The clip is off for the East at last, Mr. Clark," he said. "It is
likely you will be following it soon yourself now that you have cast
your eye over the ranch and found it running all right. Have you come to
any decision as to who you'll appoint as manager?"
Thornton glanced keenly at the ranch owner as he put his question.
"I do not think I shall appoint any manager at present, Thornton,"
replied Mr. Clark slowly. "I am in no haste to return East. Donald and I
are enjoying our holiday here tremendously and for a while, at least, I
think I shall stay and manage Crescent Ranch myself."
Thornton drew a quick breath.
It was evident that he was amazed and none too well pleased.
"It is hard work, sir--especially when you are not used to it."
"I am accustomed to hard work."
"The men will take advantage of you, sir--if I may be so bold as to say
so. They know you were not brought up to sheeping. They will impose on
you and shirk their duties."
"I am not afraid, Thornton," was the calm reply. "I have had a chance to
test what they would do when they were dipping the sheep. It was as
thorough a piece of work as one would wish to see done, and went
smoothly as a sled in iced ruts. I never saw better team-work. Sandy
directed things most ably."
"Sandy does well enough at times," was Thornton's grudging answer, "but
you are depending on him too much. You may regret it later."
"I doubt it."
Thornton turned.
"Wait and see," was his curt reply.
After he had gone out Donald rose and came to his father's side.
"Thornton doesn't like Sandy, father."
"I am afraid he doesn't, Don."
"Why?"
"Think of a reason."
"Because Sandy is the son of Old Angus--is it that?"
"Possibly," responded Mr. Clark, "and yet I think it is not wholly
that."
"Because Sandy is so good?"
"Perhaps."
"Because we both like Sandy so much?" persisted the boy.
"I shouldn't wonder."
"Well, I don't see how any one could help liking Sandy! He is the best
man on the place. He knows so much, and is so full of fun, father! And
he is so kind to his dogs and to the sheep! Why, I believe he loves
every sheep on Crescent Ranch."
"I am sure of it."
There was a silence.
"Father," burst out Donald when he could bear the silence no longer, "I
believe Thornton wants you to appoint him manager of our ranch."
Mr. Clark's face lighted with pleasure.
"I am glad to hear you call it our ranch, Don," he said. "I want you to
grow up and go to college and afterward I wish you to choose some useful
work in the world. Whatever honorable thing you elect to do I shall
gladly help you to carry out. But if it happened--not that I should ever
urge it--but if it happened that by and by you wanted to take part of
the care of this ranch on your shoulders it would make me very glad."
"I am sure I should like to," cried Donald impulsively.
"No, no," his father responded, shaking his head. "Do not give your
word so thoughtlessly. It is a serious matter to choose what you will do
in life. You must take a long time to think about it--years, perhaps.
You are only fourteen. There will be many an idea popping in and out of
your head between now and the time you are twenty. Just stow the thought
away; take it out sometimes, turn it over, and put it back again."
"I will, father."
"And now, just for a moment, let us suppose you really are twenty and
are helping me with the ranch. The first thing we should be doing now
would be trying to make up our minds about this new manager."
"Yes, I suppose we should."
"What should you say about that?"
"I wouldn't appoint Thornton, father!"
His father smiled at the instant decision.
"You must not be so positive in condemning Thornton, Don. We must be
careful that we are right before we turn him down. To have the care of
Crescent Ranch is a responsible position. We want a faithful
man--somebody we can trust when we are in the East; somebody who will
run the ranch exactly as if we were here."
"Thornton wouldn't!"
"That is what I am trying to find out," Mr. Clark said.
"Have you anybody in mind, father--anybody beside Thornton?"
Mr. Clark fingered his watch-chain.
"I am watching my men, Don. It is the little things a man does rather
than the big things that tell others what he is. Remember that. Watch
the little things."
"I didn't know you were watching anybody at all," avowed Donald. "You
did not seem to be doing much but wander round and have a good time."
"I am glad of that," answered his father.
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