A NARROW ESCAPE
It was not long before Donald felt almost as at home in the hill country
as did Sandy himself. They pitched camp and stayed in one place until
the grazing began to get scarce; then they "pulled up" and tramped on.
Sandy knew the region well and was therefore seldom at a loss to find
water-holes. During the night they watched the flock, and as soon as the
herd had fed in the morning and was ready to come to rest they left the
dogs on guard and slept. Donald usually slept soundly, for the fresh air
and exercise kept him in perfect health. Sandy, on the other hand,
slept with one eye open--or one ear open--the boy could never quite
decide which it was. But the result was the same; by some mysterious
means Sandy was always conscious of every move of his flock.
Donald never tired of watching the young Scotchman. What a picture he
was in his flannel blouse, open at the throat; his baggy trousers and
sheepskin belt; his sombrero with its band of Mexican leather; and the
field-glasses slung over his shoulder! From these glasses, his rifle,
and his crook he was seldom parted. His great knuckles, broad from the
grasp of his staff, were like iron; and his lithe, wiry body was never
weary. And yet with all his strength Sandy was the gentlest of men with
his sheep.
To his dogs he was a god! Still, with all their devotion, the collies
evidently understood that the sheep were their first care and they never
deserted their watch to accompany Sandy when he went on a hunt for
water-holes or more abundant feeding grounds. They were wonderfully
intelligent animals--these collies. Donald constantly marveled at their
cleverness. They were quick in singling out the slow or wayward sheep
and would bite their heels to hurry them along. They also recognized the
leaders and it was to them that they communicated the directions Sandy
gave them. Yet Sandy seldom spoke to his dogs. A motion of his arm and
they would spring forward and follow out his wish. Only when he
commanded it did they bark. With their drooping, bushy tails and sharp
noses they reminded Donald far more of wolves than dogs. Sandy was kind
to all of them, but it was Robin and Prince Charlie of which he was most
fond. They had been bred from dogs his father had brought from the Old
Country, he explained to Donald. There were few persons in the world for
whom he cared so much. Once when Robin had been lost on the range the
herder had traveled the hills three whole days to find him.
"What makes shepherd dogs so different from other dogs, Sandy?" asked
Donald one day.
"Some of it is in their blood. They seem to want to herd sheep--they
can't help it. Then some of the credit of a fine sheep dog is due to
his training. Why, I was months working over Robin and the Prince. I had
them with goats and sheep from the time they were born. As soon as they
were big enough I began teaching them to come when I called 'em. A good
dog has got to learn to come to you when you speak. If he has done wrong
he has got to come and be punished. Some dogs will run away when they
see that you have caught them doing the wrong thing. You cannot let a
sheep dog do that."
"But how do you train them so they won't?"
"I will tell you. It seems a heartless sort of way, but I had to do it.
I tied them with a long piece of rope; then I called them. As soon as
they came I spanked them good and hard, and afterward I'd pat them and
give them a scrap of meat. They understood in time. They would come
anyway--sure thing. If I whacked 'em it was all the same to them. By and
by when they got so they would mind, I didn't have to whack 'em, and now
it is seldom I lay hand to 'em. It was no pleasure to me, I can tell
you, and I quit it just as soon as I felt sure they would walk up like
gentlemen whenever I spoke, no matter if they knew beforehand that they
were to be whipped. You can see why this had to be, Don. Of course you
know such dogs have the nature of wolves. In fact the better the
shepherd dog, the more like a wolf he is. Now a wolf is a born enemy of
sheep. Sometimes the wolf in a shepherd dog will get the better of him
and he will turn about and kill the lambs instead of guarding them. If a
sheep-dog is once a killer he has to die. You can never be sure of him
again. So you cannot turn a dog loose on the range unless he will come
to you when you speak."
"I suppose he might start killing sheep and you would not be able to get
control of him," ventured Donald, much interested.
"That is just it! He must come even if he knows he is to be shot the
next minute. There is no safety for the sheep unless it is so. My dogs
would come to me willy-nilly."
"Isn't it wonderful?"
"Yes, unless you have been months and months, as I was, getting them to
do it; and even then it is rather wonderful. But a thing quite as
wonderful as that is that they know every sheep in the flock. Let a ewe
from another fold come in and they will scent her quick as lightning.
And there is something else they will do: they understand well as
ourselves that sheep will walk right over ledges and into pits, one
after another; so the collies will stand guard at the edges of such
places and warn 'em off. What is that but human, I ask you?"
Donald nodded.
"The men down at Crescent say," went on Sandy smiling broadly, "that I
am daffy about dogs--my own dogs most of all. Well, haven't I cause?
There is not a shepherd in this part of the country but would swap his
collies for mine; or they'd buy them. I've been offered many a dollar
for the two. But I'm no swapping my dogs, nor selling them, either!
Sometimes, you know, we fat up sheep for the market and sell them as
muttons. We then have to get the sheep into cars to send them off and it
is no so easy if they haven't the mind to go. Well, you should see
Robin and the Prince at the job. They will run right along the backs of
the herd, biting the necks of the leaders until they get them aimed
where they want 'em to go; then they'll nip the heels of the others till
they march up the planks into the cars neat as a line of soldiers. Or
they will drive a flock onto a boat the same way. It is a great thing to
get dogs that can do that. It takes more wit than a man has. Once a
sheep-raiser from California saw Robin down at Glen City getting a lot
of sheep off to Chicago on the train and he was hot for having him. He
offered me into the hundreds if I would let him take the collie back
with him."
"And you wouldn't sell?"
"The money ain't coined would tempt me to part with either of my dogs!"
Sandy replied, with a contented shake of his head.
He did not speak again, but lapsed into a thoughtful silence.
There were many of these long silences during those days on the hills
and to his surprise Donald had come to enjoy them. At first he had
looked forward eagerly to the coming of the camp-tender, who made his
rounds three times a week. Not only did this Mexican bring fresh-baked
bread, cold meat, and condensed milk to add to the campers' stock of
salt pork, lentils, and coffee, but he brought messages from the outside
world; gossip from the other herders; and now and then a letter from
Donald's father. These visits were as exciting as to meet an ocean liner
at sea. Gradually, however, Donald looked forward less and less to
seeing the tiny Mexican burros with their loaded paniers wend their way
up the hillsides. He grew into the shepherd life until like Sandy he
found himself courting the sense of isolation and almost resenting the
intrusion of the camp-tender.
He could now understand why the herders who had lived on the range for
years were such a silent lot of men. When his father and he had first
arrived at Crescent Ranch the shepherds had had so little to say that
Donald, who was a sensitive lad, had felt sure that the men did not like
to have them come. Later, however, he had found the herders kindly
despite their taciturn manner. It was not ill-will but habitual silence.
"What a lot of things people say that they don't need to, Sandy," he
observed to the Scotchman one day.
Sandy chuckled outright.
"So you have come to that way of thinking, have you? We'll make a
shepherd of you yet! Well, well, it is true enough. Folks chatter and
chatter and what does it amount to? Many's the time they wish afterward
they had held their tongues. But it is all as we're made. Some drop into
being contented on the range; others cannot bear the stillness. I was
ever happy alone in the open; but my brother Douglas was uneasy as a
colt."
"I didn't know you had a brother, Sandy!" exclaimed Donald, in surprise.
"Aye, a little lad, five years younger than myself."
"What--what became of him, Sandy?"
"What became of him--that's a question that I wish I could answer! He
came to Crescent Ranch years ago with my father and me and was about
the place for a long time. But he was all for the city. He hated the
quiet of the hills. He wanted to be seeing people and to be around in
the rush of things, and he begged my father to let him go to some big
place and find a job. My father was ever a strict man and he would have
none of the youngster's going off by himself. There came a day, though,
when the lad was so sore and unhappy that my father bid him set off for
the East. There was no other way to satisfy the boy. But it was a sad
time for my father--and for me, too."
"Where did he go?"
"To some city on the coast, I dinna just know where. We were ever
thinking he would come back some day--but he never did. It is years now
since I have had tidings from him. But sometimes when I am here by
myself I cannot but wonder where he is and what has become of him. He'd
be a man near twenty-five now."
"Does my father know this?"
"Likely not."
"May I tell him?"
"Aye, to be sure. No boy should have secrets from his father."
"I can't see why a boy should want to," declared Donald. "Why, my father
and I are--well, we are the greatest friends in the world! I like to be
with him better than any one else."
"So I figure. He must be thinking now and again that he'd like a sight
of you at Crescent instead of seeing Thornton every day."
"What sort of a man is Thornton, Sandy?"
"What sort of a man do you take him to be?"
"I do not like him!" was the prompt reply.
"And wherefore?"
"Oh, I--don't--know."
"A poor reason. Dinna say that about any man until you get a better
one."
Donald colored.
Sandy had dropped many a curt word that had brought the boy up,
standing. Whatever else the young herder was he was just. Not only did
Donald's liking, but his respect for him, increase.
Ah, what happy days they passed together! Donald became so attached to
the various camps that he hated to leave them. Sometimes he and Sandy
would stay in a spot a week, sometimes ten days; then onward and upward
over the great plateaus of the mountains they made their way. These flat
reaches of pasture-land were like huge steps. It was hard to realize
that they were constantly climbing. Yet up, up, up they went! Each camp
was several hundred feet higher than the last. As they went on the
pasturage became richer, the air cooler. Clear streams from melting,
snowy summits rushed along, leaving pathways of music behind them. With
a hawk's keenness Sandy chose the most fertile stretches of grass for
the flock.
"The weight of the clip depends on good grazing," he explained to
Donald.
"The clip?"
"Aye, the wool. Wool is sold by the pound, you must know. The better the
feed, the thicker the wool. We must look out, though, for poisoned
meadows. There do be many in this region."
"Poisoned meadows!"
"Fields where poison herbage grows. Hundreds of sheep lose their lives
devouring poisonous weeds. Keep your eye out for signs, laddie."
"Signs! Signs up here!"
"Where else? That is one of the many things our United States government
does for us. It posts notices of poisoned meadows to warn the grazers on
the range."
"That is a pretty nice thing to do!" Donald said.
"Sure enough it is," agreed Sandy. "Some day the survey will have all
the water-holes catalogued along with the poisoned herbage, and will
then be able to direct herders to the best grazing grounds. That is what
the government is busy trying to do now."
"And yet sheep-owners kick at paying for permits," exclaimed Donald.
"Why, lots of that permit money must come back in this way to the very
men who pay it."
"For certain! And mind what I'm telling you--you will see more things
that the government is doing for the herders when you get higher up. You
will see great pastures fenced in with coyote-proof wire--pastures to be
used in lambing time so the young creatures will be safe from
prairie-dogs."
"Do you have coyotes on the range?"
"Do we? Do we? Folks would know you for a tenderfoot right off if they
heard you ask that question! The coyote, I'd have you know, is the pest
of the sheepman. He's the meanest critter--but there, why be talking?
You'll see for yourself soon enough. The government has spent thousands
of dollars killing coyotes on these ranges."
"To help the sheep-raisers?"
"So."
"Well, I don't wonder my father wanted Crescent Ranch to pay its full
share for permits. Since we are getting all these advantages, we ought
to bear our part of the expense, oughtn't we?" said Donald.
"That's my feeling. We ought to be proud, too, we are bearing it. It's a
grand country! I wasn't born here, like you, but I came here as a child,
and the bones of my people are here. I mean to live in America and take
what it offers, and wouldn't I be the churl not to give the little I
can in return! I haven't money, but I can live up to the laws. Scotchman
though I be 'twill no hinder me from making a good American of myself."
"Bully for you, Sandy!" cried Donald. Then he added soberly: "I am going
to be a better American when I get back home."
"Dinna wait till then, laddie--be a better one now!"
Sandy chanced to be deftly cutting the outline of a thistle on a spruce
staff he was carving for the boy. Donald watched him in silence as he
worked in the fading light. The sun had set behind the chain of near
hills, and the plateau where they were camping was gray with shadows.
Through the dusk they could see the flock lazily browsing among the
junipers.
Suddenly there was a cry from Sandy.
He threw down the staff and sprang to his feet.
"The herd!" he shouted. "They're off!"
Sure enough! Without a cry the leaders had started for the rimrock, and
in their wake--straight for the face of the precipice--was running the
entire flock.
"They're startled!" gasped Sandy. "We must head 'em off. Run for your
life! We must get between the brainless creatures and the cliff before
they go over."
Donald ran. He had never run so before. His training as a track sprinter
stood him in good stead now. But he had never been a long-distance
runner. Two hundred yards was his limit. Moreover he was not in
training. But he ran--ran as he did not know he could run. He gained on
the sheep. Sandy, in the meantime, was waving his arms to the dogs who,
understanding his slightest motion, now dashed ahead. The sheep,
however, were far in advance by this time. On they sped in mad panic.
Donald could run no more. He began to lag, his heart beating like a
hammer. Even Sandy, who from the opposite direction was racing for the
edge of the rock, slackened his pace.
The race was a hopeless one.
Then without warning, out of the trees at the left side of the field
rode a horseman at full gallop. With flying hoofs he cut in ahead of
the herd just as they neared the face of the rock.
The leaders swerved, circled, and turned about. The gait of the
stampeding flock lessened. The dogs skilfully steered the approaching
sheep out to one side where Sandy scattered them that they might not
collide with the ranks coming toward them. Gradually the fears of the
flock became quieted. Falling into a walk they worked their way into
their customary places and turned about, feeding as they went.
Immediately when Sandy saw them safe he pressed forward to the side of
the horseman where he beckoned Donald to join him.
"I spied your plight from the ridge above, Sandy McCulloch," called the
rider. "The rest of the Crescent herd has gone in to the Reserve and I
have had my eye out for you for days. I thought it was about time that
you were coming along."
"It's a good turn you've done me this day, Sargeant," Donald heard Sandy
say.
"You have done many a favor for me."
"Dinna be talking. It is little I ever did for you. An errand or two
perhaps, or carrying a message--but what is that? Any man would be glad
to do the same. To-night, though, you have saved my whole herd. We
should not have had a sheep left. Here is Master Donald Clark, the son
of our owner," went on Sandy, as Donald came nearer. "Let him thank you.
Don, this soldier is one of the government rangers."
Leaning from his saddle the horseman put out his hand.
"I am proud," he said, "to meet one of the owners of Crescent Ranch. If
you are learning about the range, Master Clark, you cannot be in better
company than to be with Sandy McCulloch. There is little about sheeping
that he doesn't know; nor is there a cleaner-handed herder to be found.
We never need to see his permit or count his sheep. He is no
lawbreaker!"
"I hope none of our men are," replied Donald, shyly.
"Crescent Ranch has always had the reputation of being run on the
square. We have no complaint to make," was the ranger's answer.
"We--my father means that it shall be," the boy asserted modestly.
"I do not doubt he does. You will have trouble, though, I fear, in
finding another manager who can match Old Angus--or even Johnson. They
were rare men who were famed throughout the county for their honesty and
common sense."
"We shall try to find some other manager as good."
"May you be so fortunate. Good luck to you!"
With a wave of his hand the ranger cantered into the darkness and was
soon lost from sight.
"You see, don't you, Don, that the rangers are not our natural born
enemies after all," said Sandy, with a good-humored smile that bared his
glistening teeth.
"I should say not!"
"They are all like that if we but live up to our part of the bargain. I
never yet met a ranger who was not friendly and kind. But you cannot
have folks for your friends if you do not meet them half-way."
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