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diff --git a/old/67764-0.txt b/old/67764-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index bc03378..0000000 --- a/old/67764-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7411 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Shepherds of the Wild, by Edison -Marshall - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Shepherds of the Wild - -Author: Edison Marshall - -Illustrator: William Herbert Dunton - -Release Date: April 3, 2022 [eBook #67764] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed Proofreaders - Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net from page images - generously made available by the Internet Archive - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHEPHERDS OF THE WILD *** - -[Illustration: “We’ll pay you two dollars a day—and furnish you with -supplies,” she assured him soberly.—FRONTISPIECE. _See page 122._] - - - - - SHEPHERDS OF - THE WILD - - - BY EDISON MARSHALL - - - AUTHOR OF - “_The Snowshoe Trail_,” “_The Voice of the Pack_,” - “_The Strength of the Pines_,” _etc._ - - [Illustration] - - A. L. BURT COMPANY - Publishers New York - - - Published by arrangement with Little, Brown and Company - Printed in U. S. A. - - - - - _Copyright, 1922_, - BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. - —— - - Published February, 1922 - - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - - - - Shepherds of the Wild - - - - - CHAPTER I - - -The mouth of the canyon was darkened with shadows when the bull elk came -stealing down the brown trail through the dusky thicket. In all this -mountain realm, a land where the wild things of the forest still held -sway, there was no creature of more majestic bearing or noble beauty. He -was full-grown; his great antlers swept back over his powerful -shoulders; and it was evident from his carriage that he had no fear of -such enemies as might be lurking in the gloomy canyon. For it was known -far through the forest that even the great puma or the terrible grizzly, -unless they had the advantage of ambush, treated Spread Horn with -considerable respect. - -Signs of July were everywhere: signs that were large print and clear to -the eyes of the wild creatures, but which would have been mostly -unintelligible to men. The huckleberries were just beginning to ripen in -the thickets as always, in the seventh month. The fledglings, the little -weasel noticed as he climbed here and there through the branches, were -just the July size,—still soft with the fat of squabhood but yet big -enough to make a pleasing lump in the stomach. The pines are a wonderful -calendar in themselves; and only to the eyes of human beings, badly in -need of spectacles, do they seem never to change. They go from a deep, -rich green to a strange dusky blue, and now they were just about halfway -between. This fact, as well as the size and developments of their cones, -indicated as clearly as a printed calendar that the month was July. -Besides, old Spread Horn had a sure index to the month in his own -antlers. - -Time was, and not many months back at that, when he had no more sign of -antlers than his own cows. The time would come, just before they fell -off completely, when they would be suitably hard and sharp for the -edification of any rival stags that should attempt to disrupt his family -life. Just at present they were full-grown but still in the -“velvet,”—covered with a sort of tawny fuzz that was soft to the touch. -It indicated July without the least chance for doubt. - -He came slipping easily down the canyon; and there was no reason -whatever for expecting him. He walked into the wind: his scent was blown -behind. Otherwise certain coyotes and lynx and such hunters, too -ineffective ever to get farther than hungry thoughts and speculations, -would have been somewhat excited by his approach. Spread Horn made it -his business to walk into the face of the wind just as much as possible, -and in that way he was aware of all living creatures in the foreground -before they were aware of him. To walk down the wind, all creatures -know, is to announce one’s self as clearly as to wear a bell around the -neck. - -Neither did the great elk make any sounds in particular. If indeed a -twig cracked from time to time beneath his foot it was not enough to -arouse any interest. He was not especially hungry, but now and then he -lowered his head to crop a tender shoot from the shrubbery. At such -times he kept watch, out of the corner of his eyes, for any enemies that -might be waiting in ambush beside the trail. He would stake his horns -and hoofs against any wild creature that inhabited Smoky Land, in a fair -fight; but the puma—and sometimes even the grizzly—didn’t always play -fair. They knew how to leap like the blast of doom from a heavy thicket. - -A coyote—most despised of hunters—saw Spread Horn’s tall form in the -shrubbery and glided away. There was a legend in the coyote’s family of -how once a particularly bold forefather had seized a cow elk by the leg, -and of the subsequent tragedy that had befallen. The only result, it had -seemed, was a careful and patient dissection of the gray body beneath -the front hoofs of the bull—arriving just the wrong moment—and Gray -Thief had no desire to start a new legend on his own account. - -Spread Horn showed no surprise at his appearance. His only neighbors -were the wild folk,—the only people that he knew. For the wild -creatures were still, as far as facts went, the real owners and -habitants of Smoky Land. It is true that in various heavy and dusty -books in legal offices it could be learned that this particular part of -Idaho was public domain, but as yet few frontiersmen had come to clear -away the forest and till the meadows. The place was really startlingly -large—distances are always rather generous in the West—but few were -the maps that named it. Those that had gone to fish in its waters and -hunt its mountains thought of it always as beyond,—beyond the last -outposts of civilization, beyond the end of the trails, and clear where -the little rivers rose in great springs. The cattlemen had named it, and -at the end of the dry summer, when forest fires ranged here and there -through the high ridges on each side, the name was particularly -appropriate. Because of the structure of the passes the winds were -likely to fill the region with pale, blue smoke. - -In reality Smoky Land lay on the great shoulders of the Rockies,—a high -plateau, studded here and there by grim and lofty snow peaks. It was not -a land for gentlefolk. It was a hard, grim place, a forbidding land -where the sun was a curse in summer and the winds a stinging lash in -winter, where great glaciers gleamed in the morning light and snow -fields lay unchanging above the line where the timber became stunted and -died. There were rugged crags and impassable cliffs, deep gorges and -dark, still canyons; miles of gray sliderock and glossy grass slope; and -through it all, dwelling like a spirit, there was a beauty that could -not be denied. It manifested itself to every sweep of the eyes. - -Game trails wound and crisscrossed through the thickets, and the dung -was not dried to dust and the tracks half obliterated and stale as in -many of the game trails of the West. One only had to wait, to lie still -as a shadow in the coverts to see such sights as the forest gods usually -reserved for the chosen few. Sometimes it was a doe, stealing with -mincing steps and incredible grace from thicket to thicket; sometimes a -puma, glaring of eye and hushed of foot and curiously interested in all -the doings of the deer; sometimes an old black bear grunted and mumbled -and soliloquized as he blundered along; and there is a tale, one that -only the swans that come to the high lakes lived long enough to -remember, that years ago, in a particularly cold winter, Old Argali, the -great mountain ram, led his flock down from the high peaks to feed on -the green banks of the streams. - -Spread Horn knew them all. They were his neighbors. Also he knew the -people that lived in the cataract at the bottom of the gorge. Sometimes, -when he paused to drink, the salmon rushed past him in their mysterious -journeyings,—their fourth-year migration to the waters in which they -were born. They come to spawn in the waters where they were themselves -spawned before they go down to the sea, and after they spawn they die. -To the naturalist there are strange significances in this repatriation -of the salmon. There is a sense of curious relationships,—for strong -men, too, always try to return to their homeland for their last days. -After four years, almost to the day, the salmon come fighting their way -back through the riffles, into dreadful gorges, up cataracts, and high -is the waterfall that holds them back. - -The salmon were not the only water people that Spread Horn knew. He had -seen the trout, too (of course the salmon himself is just an overgrown -trout that has taken up a seafaring life) and some of them, like the -salmon themselves, took an occasional thousand-mile jaunt to the ocean. -These were the great steelheads and such seagoing people, and sportsmen -say that a five-pounder at the end of a silk line will permit, for ten -tearing, fighting, breathless moments, a glimpse into the Promised Land. -But you can imagine the mighty salmon, who have spent four years in the -sea and who have swum about the reefs of Kamchatka, regarding them with -some patronage. Then there were the little trout: quivering, timid, -sparkling creatures that, although great stay-at-homes and never going -to sea, still look very beautiful in a creel. - -It seems to be one of Nature’s aims to make life interesting and -exciting for all her creatures, so she had provided certain other -river-folk to entertain these finned people. Their method of -entertainment was to take a sudden leap into a riffle or trout pool with -glittering, gleaming razor-edged teeth all set and ready. One little -instant’s delay in darting to safety, one little clasping of those -wicked teeth into the beautiful silver shoulder,—and the trout leaped -no more for flies in the cool of the evening. These were the otter and -mink and such fur-bearing people, and they existed in plentiful numbers -because in this region the trapper had not yet made himself particularly -manifest. Then there were plenty of mergansers and other feathered -fishermen to take care of the fingerlings. - -The cattle herds fed through the region, and sometimes sportsmen -penetrated its fastnesses, but mostly Smoky Land was simply the -wilderness, primeval and unchanged. The venerable grizzly still dug for -marmots on the high ranges,—the great killer that shared the mountain -monarchy with the bull elk. The Rocky Mountain goat, white-whiskered as -a patriarch, had a range just adjoining that of the bighorn. The wolf -pack sang of death and hunger when the ridges were swept with snow. - - * * * * * - -The late afternoon sunlight, shot and dappled by the shadows of the -leaves, fell over the bull elk’s body; and the animal sensed the -approach of night. It was the drinking hour. A spring flowed at the foot -of the glen, Spread Horn knew, and he turned toward it, stealing softly. -And all at once he seemed to freeze in his tracks. - -The wind had brought him a message, unmistakably as wireless telephones -bring messages of approaching foes across a battle field. His nervous -reaction was instantaneous: danger, go slow! Yet it was not a familiar -smell, and scientists would have a hard time explaining why the stag had -at once recognized its menace. For the creature from whom it came was -almost a stranger to these mountains, and it was wholly possible that -Spread Horn had never perceived the breed before. - -He stood still, gazing, and he looked a long time through the shrubbery -branches down to a little green glade beside the spring. He raised one -foot and lifted his long muzzle. Then he gave the warning cry,—the -sound with which, in the fall, he would warn his herd of danger. - -There was no more distinctive cry in the whole wilderness world than -this,—a strange, whistling snort, beginning high on the scale and -descending to a deep bawl. It traveled far through the stillness. He -waited a breathless instant while the echo came back to him. Then he -sprang and darted at full speed away into the heavier thickets. - -Far below, at the spring, an unfamiliar figure in these wilds leaped to -his feet with a guttural cry. It was also a distinctive sound: and no -wonder the little chipmunk paused in his scurried occupations to listen -to it. Even to the addled brain of the squirrel it suggested annoyance -and anger,—a quality possessed by the snarl of the puma when it had -missed its stroke. No wonder Spread Horn had fled. The figure was none -other than that tall harbinger of death and peril, man. - -“It was an elk,” the man cried. “You’ve missed your chance.” - -Some one stretched on the grass at his feet answered with a half-snarl. -“To hell with the elk,” he replied. “You’ve tipped over the last quart.” - - - - - CHAPTER II - - -It is a far cry from the fastnesses of Idaho back to the lounging room -of the Greenwood Club in a great and fashionable city on the Atlantic -seaboard; but that distance must be traveled in order to explain at all, -to the satisfaction of the old camp-robber bird that perched and -squawked upon a limb beside his camp, the presence of Hugh Gaylord in -Smoky Land. It all went back to a June evening, immediately preceding -the dinner hour, in which he had a short and somewhat important talk -with that gray, wise, venerable head of the board of governors whom all -men knew fondly as the “Old Colonel.” - -It was always very easy to learn to love the Old Colonel. On the -particular late June night in question the Colonel looked his usual best -in correctly tailored dinner clothes, possessing only one note of -individuality, the black bow, obviously factory-tied, set at his collar -at a rather startling angle. - -“Gaylord,” he said suddenly. “I’d like a few words with you. Bring your -glass over to my chair.” - -The young man thus addressed had been one of a gay group across the -lounging room, and they all looked up with interest. It was a remembered -fact that when the Colonel spoke in that tone of voice it was well to -listen closely. Gaylord himself smiled and came at once toward him. The -group went on with their talk. - -The club lights showed the young man plainly, yet he did not in the -least stand out. In fact, at first glance there was very little to -distinguish him from most of the other men of his age that frequented -the club rooms. It was not until two weeks later, when his great -adventure had actually begun, and when the camp-robber studied him from -the tree limb, that his real personality stood forth. Of course it was -by light of contrast. In these luxurious rooms he was among his own -kind: in those far mountains he was a stranger and an alien. - -He was a familiar type: rather boyish, kind-hearted as are most men who -have lived sheltered lives, a fair athlete and a good sportsman at the -poker table. It was enough; most of his young friends were wholly -satisfied with him, and except perhaps for a vague, troubled -hour—usually late at night—Hugh Gaylord was wholly satisfied with -himself. And perhaps the reason why the blood mounted higher in his -cheeks as the Colonel summoned him was his realization that the old man -had had sterner training, and that he possessed X-ray eyes that could -read straight into a man. In the first place the Colonel had amassed a -fortune by his own resistless effort. In the second, he had known the -great school of the forest. He was a sportsman whose metal had been -tried and proven on the game trails of two continents. - -His eyes leaped over Hugh’s face, and he wondered if he had undertaken a -vain task. He knew that a steel-worker cannot make tempered blades out -of inferior metal. He wondered if he could hope for any real response -from the treatment he was about to suggest. Hugh looked soft, and soft -men are not usually made hard by a few weeks in the mountains. To follow -the high trails, to seek the hidden people, to scale the cliffs and wade -the marsh require a certain hardihood of spirit to start with,—and Hugh -Gaylord seemed lacking in that trait. It was not that he had a -weakling’s body. Because it was the thing to do in his own circle he had -kept himself fit on the gym-floor of his athletic club. His hands were -hard and brown, his figure lithe, his face and neck were tanned in -tennis court and golf links. - -Yet that hard-eyed old woodsman looked at him straight and knew the -truth. Hugh would not be able at once to enter into the spirit of the -land where the Colonel was about to advise him to go. The lean -foresters, natives of the land, would not accept him either; nor would -they stay to eat at his camp. They wouldn’t linger to tell him secrets -of the wild. If they talked to him at all, it would be to narrate long -and impossible adventures that are usually, on the frontier, the “feed” -for tenderfeet. He could not enter into the communion of the camp fire; -and yet no one—except possibly the Colonel himself—could tell him why. - -Perhaps he lacked the basic stuff. The Old Colonel was a little -despairing: he had begun to fear that in this lay the true explanation. -But perhaps—and this was the old man’s hope—the matter got down to a -simple phrase of ancient usage: that Hugh had merely not yet learned to -be a “man of his hands.” The meaning goes deeper than mere manual toil. -It implies achievement, discipline, self-reliance. It is not a thing to -mistake. It promotes the kind of equality that the Old Colonel himself -knew,—that which abides at a Western cow ranch or in the battle trench. -Hugh’s face was not unlined; but dissipation rather than stress had made -the furrows. The lips did not set quite firm, the young eyes were -slightly dimmed and bloodshot. There was, however, the Colonel saw with -relief, no trace of viciousness in his youthful face. He was an -Anglo-Saxon: after the manner of most Northern men he was an honest -young debaucher, taking his orgies rather seriously and overdoing them -in a way that would be shocking in a Latin. Possibly the same Northern -blood gave him a background of strength: this was the old man’s hope. - -“You’re looking a bit seedy, Hugh,” the Old Colonel began in his usual -straightforward way. “I’m afraid you’re getting to be sort of a poor -stick.” - -His tone was that with which he was wont to begin an interesting story: -perfectly matter-of-fact, just as if he were pronouncing a judgment on -the weather. Hugh flushed to the roots of his hair but he didn’t take -offense. No one ever could take offense when the Colonel told them -truths. - -“Complimentary mood to-day, eh, Colonel,” Hugh commented lightly. In -reality he didn’t feel in a festive mood at all. But he sat still, -dreading what might come next. - -“No, not particularly,” the Colonel answered soberly. “You know, Hugh, -the interest I’ve always taken in you. And you know why.” - -Yes, Hugh knew why. It went back to one of his own mother’s girlhood -romances,—a rather beautiful story such as men tell their wives and -sweethearts but from masculine reserve do not talk over among -themselves. - -“I know,” Hugh agreed. - -“I can’t see,” the old man went on thoughtfully, “that in spite of -the—er—damnable joy of having you around, you’re any good to yourself -or any one else. Why don’t you lay off of it a while?” - -“You mean—this?” Hugh tilted his glass up on one edge. - -“I didn’t happen to mean that, but perhaps I’d better include it. I saw -you last night, Hugh, and I’m not one to think hard of a boy for an -occasional exhilaration. But the trouble was—it was the night before -too, and the night before that, and nobody knows how many more such -nights. You’re looking a little soft around the mouth, and just a -little—too old for your years. Won’t do, Hughey boy. I mean why don’t -you lay off this sort of life you’ve been leading: too much ease, too -much loaf, too much booze, too much chorus, not enough work. Oh, damn -their skins! I wish they’d sent you to France.” - -“And I guess you know how I felt about that,” Hugh replied in his own -defense. Yes, the Colonel knew: Hugh had really and earnestly wanted to -go to France. He had been commissioned, however, rather sooner than was -best for him, and he had been kept in an office in Washington. - -“And the worst of it is you never even had to go through the grind of -being a real buck private, with nothing particularly in sight. You’ve -had everything too easy. You ought to sweat once, and feel a few breaks -in your skin and a few sore muscles. Soft, Hugh, soft as soap. Lazy as -sin. Why don’t you get out and rough it for a while?” - -Hugh stood up. “I don’t know——” he began stiffly. - -“But I do. Sit down.” - -The eyes of the two men met, and those of the old man smiled under his -bushy brows. Hugh sat down again. He knew, only too well, how true these -words were. He had always been soft, and trial had never hardened him. -“I suppose the same old chant—to go to work.” - -“Not this time. I’m going to prescribe another treatment—a more -pleasant one. I know there’s no use of asking you to go to work. I don’t -see what work you could do. Sitting around an office, considering the -safe and sane nature of your investments, wouldn’t help you much. But, -Hugh, I have some English friends—good enough beggars most of ’em—and -once or twice they’ve confessed—that the only thing that kept them from -utter damnation was devoting their lives to sport.” - -Hugh knew about these “good enough beggars” that were friends to the -Colonel—many of them men of great names and titles whom lesser -Americans would boast of knowing. The Old Colonel shook his head -somewhat sadly, and for a moment his eyes gazed out over the twilight -grounds. - -“When I say ‘sport,’” he explained, “I mean he-man sport. Into Africa -after lions. Shooting a tiger from the ground. Up to Tibet after snow -leopards. Down to New Zealand after trout. Going—going—going—never -getting soft. Blizzards and jungle and thirst and cold. I know there’s -no chance for me to get you to do real work. But damn me—I can’t help -but think there’s a little of the old stuff in you somewhere, and I’ve -been thinking that a hard course with rifle and fly rod might—might get -you going along the right lines. If you’d once learn to love the -outdoors, and learn to love to fight, who knows what might not happen.” - -“And you suggest—that I take a trip after lions?” - -“Lions are hard game, not for children,” was the reply. “‘I hunted the -lion,’ was one of the few things an old and tough Egyptian Pharaoh saw -fit to record imperishably on his monument—but you’re not a Pharaoh -yet. I’ve got something here.” - -He fished through many waistcoat pockets and drew out a clipping, -spreading it out on the broad arm of his chair. “I thought of you when I -read it—and cut it out—and I thought what I would have done if it -wasn’t for the old game leg. I thought maybe it would stir up your -dormant imagination and set you off. Read it.” - -Hugh read, noting first that the clipping was a reprint from an Idaho -paper: - - The stockmen of the Smoky Land section, up Silver Creek way, say - that unless government hunters come to their aid, the stock - business in that district will be seriously impaired. Wolves and - coyotes seem extra plentiful this year, and besides a giant - cougar, to whom the sparse settlers have given the name of - Broken Fang, has been ranging there for some months, doing - thousands of dollars’ worth of damage to cattle and sheep. From - the size of his track and the occasional glimpses of him, the - residents of that section think that he is the largest of the - great cats that has ranged in Idaho for many years. - -The Old Colonel studied Hugh’s face as he read. “Not very interesting, -eh?” he commented at last. “My boy—he would be a trophy. I know -something about that hairy old breed of mountaineers in the Upper Salmon -country. They don’t take the trouble to give a puma a name unless he’s a -moose. I know quite a little about pumas, too—or cougars, they call -’em. Usually they are about as dangerous as white rabbits. But once in a -while one of them gets overgrown and thinks he bosses the range. If -wounded—and sometimes by a long chance even if he isn’t wounded—they -put up a wicked fight. This big boy would be a trophy worth having; -besides, you might pick up a grizzly or a smaller puma. There are always -trout, and this is trout-time in the West. Why don’t you go after him?” - -The Old Colonel always put his propositions in just that straight-out -way; and it made them hard to refuse. - -“You mean—go out there three thousand miles on a long chance of killing -this cattle-slayer?” - -“Why not? You’re not paralyzed or anything. You ought to see Idaho. -Every man should. As I said, there are worlds of smaller game. Every man -ought to have an objective in his trip; so I say go to Smoky Land. These -two weeks might teach you to love the woods so you’d go again and again. -And a few trips to the high ranges, once you really got to love ’em and -play ’em right, might make—might do wonders for you. Please give me the -pleasure of telling the boys that Hughey Gaylord has gone big-game -hunting.” - -Hugh felt the wave of red spreading in his cheeks again. He knew -perfectly what the old man had been about to say—“to make a man of -him.” - -“Remember,” the Old Colonel urged further, “you’re an Anglo-Saxon—a -white man of straight descent. It’s a heritage, Hugh. And it implies an -obligation.” - -“I’d hate it,” Hugh protested. - -“Try it and see. Perhaps—there might be a miracle.” - -Hugh drained his glass; then stood up. “Very well, I’ll start next -week,” he said at last simply. - -Thus this son of cities gave his promise to go forth into a man’s land: -a land of trial and travail, of many perils and strong delights, a -jagged mountain land where the powers of the wilderness still ruled -supreme—and yet a place where miracles might come to pass. - - - - - CHAPTER III - - -The camp-robber, perched on a limb, was in considerable of a mental -turmoil. His mentality was never of an extra high grade, and to-day his -intellectual grasp had almost failed him. And the reason was that he had -made an astonishing discovery; and these remote Idaho forests had -suddenly revealed to him a form of life that he hadn’t had any idea -existed. - -Of course his true name wasn’t “camp-robber.” In reality he belonged to -that noisy, thievish jay-magpie assemblage that is to be found in almost -all of the great Western forests, and he had a long and jaw-breaking -scientific designation besides. But on the lower East Side it isn’t -necessary to hunt up the name in full of Tony the Dip, because the title -describes him better than the name his mother gave him. It was much the -same with the camp-robber. He got the title from his habits and it -fitted him to perfection. - -He was rather a gay old bird with considerable blue and gray in his -feathers, and in his several months of life he had concluded that he -knew these Idaho woods from one end to another. He thought it would be a -long, cold summer day before he would meet a situation that he could not -immediately handle. He knew just how to look twice into a cluster of -leaves and twigs before he lighted among them—lest a certain little -brown-furred cutthroat that was rather unpleasantly known to his family -should be waiting in ambush. He knew how to select a nest-site out of -the reach of a prowling raccoon, and he was as impertinent and saucy -from all this knowledge as words can tell. Yet out of a perfectly clear -ground, so to speak (it wouldn’t be correct to say out of a clear sky -when referring to one who habitually lives in the sky) two utterly -unknown and enormous living creatures had revealed themselves. - -The camp-robber had been winging back and forth through the forest and -had flitted down to the spring for a bath. One of the two figures was -standing erect, shaking his fist at the speeding form of Spread Horn,—a -creature from the back of which the camp-robber had almost, if not -quite, gathered vermin. The other was lying down, gazing moodily at an -interesting-looking object that had oozed what had seemed to be dark -blood on the pine needles. In form they resembled bears; yet he didn’t -for an instant think that they were. They were not deer or cougar or -even overgrown raccoons. He perched upon the limb to think it over. - -Yet the camp-robber never spends a great deal of time in such a -profitless occupation as thought. At once his instincts began to get -busy inside of him. He was a born kleptomaniac, and he was simply -fascinated by the number of bright and interesting things lying about -the ashes of the dead fire. He began to have all manner of pleasing -conjectures in regard to them. Like many gentlemen-of-fortune in the -Parisian underworld he had a long ancestry of famous criminals; and now -he remembered certain advice his mother had given him when he was a -fledgling in the nest. - -“If ever you find a camp of men,” one can imagine the old mother-bird -chirping, as she flicked her tail here and there, “fly right down into -it. You will have more fun than you ever had in your life before.” - -These were men: no other supposition remained. The camp-robber squawked -once, in enthusiasm, and sailed down to the ground beside the prone -figure. - -The result was rather astonishing. For the second at least Hugh Gaylord -forgot the late tragedy to his last bottle of bourbon. A smile that was -singularly winning and boyish played around his lips. - -It was not quite Gaylord’s way to smile at such little things as this. -It usually required a very keen jest from a clever comedian in a musical -comedy to draw a smile from him. Strangest of all, he hadn’t been in the -least in the humor for gaiety since the first day he had come to these -stern, lonely mountains. - -He watched the bird with growing astonishment. His surprise was really -no less than that of the camp-robber on first beholding the two men. The -bird hopped here and there among the camp supplies, scratched in the -pine needles for crumbs, and then, with astounding cheek, began to peck -holes in the soap. He had tasted many things in his months of foraging, -but here was something the like of which he had never tasted before. The -truth was that more than one camp, here and there through the forest, -could not yield up such a treat as this. Many of the sparse visitors to -the Upper Salmon mountains regarded the use of soap as they did -Christmas,—something to celebrate once a year. - -Hugh had not discerned the fleeting form of the elk in the thickets, and -except for his guide, this bird was the first living thing he had seen -since he had come to Smoky Land. It was not that the forest did not -literally teem with life. The trouble lay in Hugh’s eyes. The living -things of the great forest are always furtive and hidden, and they only -yield their most priceless secrets to those who seek them. - -A man never sees clearly when his brain is misted and blurred from the -fumes of strong drink; besides, Hugh had not yet gone a half-mile from -camp. He was a tenderfoot in the raw, and the forest creatures had been -able to discern his heavy tread in plenty of time to get out of sight. -He had been disgusted and annoyed by the discomforts of camp life, and -he was eager to return to his own kind; his stock of liquor had been -running low and without it he did not believe he could exist; he spoke -loudly and his spirit was dead within him: and thus the forest had -remained a closed book. His choice of a companion had not been -particularly fortunate either. Pete had good blood in him, the blood of -as brave and hardy a race as ever lived, but degeneracy was upon him and -his people. He had been employed as Hugh’s guide, but he had found it -much more convenient to stay in camp and drink Hugh’s whisky. - -The Indian guide would have been a familiar type to any one of the -hardy, farseeing frontiersmen that occasionally ranged through the -forest, but Hugh himself would have wakened some wonder. He was still -obviously a man of cities. He wore the outdoor clothes of a gentleman, -which is but rarely the outdoor garb of the frontier. They were stained -with dirt and their careful crease was destroyed; yet they marked him as -a tenderfoot. - -The truth was that the Colonel’s experiment had seemingly failed: the -few days that Hugh had already spent in the far Rockies had wrought no -change in him. He had not found Broken Fang—the great cougar that had -already won a name through a thousand square miles of Idaho forest—and -he was ready to admit to himself, at least, that he had made no real -effort to find him. He had fished once, succeeding in breaking a number -of expensive gut leaders and high-grade flies in the brush along the -stream. The remainder of the time he had lain in camp, wishing he hadn’t -come. Fortunately the two weeks were nearly over. - -The guide brought his wandering mind back to the disaster of his liquor. -“I know where you can buy quart—take place that one I spilled,” the -Indian said. - -Hugh’s face brightened. “Lead me to it.” - -“Just over ridge. Sheep camp there—only one this part of mountains. -Herder’ll have extra quart or two.” - -Hugh looked at his watch. “We can get over and back by dark?” - -“Maybe soon after. Going to be pretty dusky right away.” - -The man spoke true. The twilight was falling over Smoky Land. The sun -was set, the tall pines seemed to darken above them, the dusk grew and -deepened between the distant trunks. The immeasurable silence of the -mountain night, broken by such little sounds as only accentuate the -hush, was deepening about them. - -Hugh had no answer at first. For once no words were at his lips, and it -was a good and portentous sign. He stood listening. Perhaps because the -visit of the camp-robber had been an impulse to his imagination, perhaps -only because the effect of his last drink was dying within him, some -little portion at least of the age-old magic of the wilderness twilight -was going home to him. Now that his guide’s voice died away, he was a -little startled by the vastness of the silence. - -Far and wide through the forest the wild creatures were starting forth -on their night’s business. But they moved with stealth. Hugh had an -instant’s dim realization that thickets moved and rustled in the -ultimate reaches of hearing; that dim shadows wavered so far distant -that he could not be sure of them. The wilderness forces were coming to -life. - -He lifted his face. As usual in the twilight hour, the faintest breath -of wind came slipping, light as a deer-tread itself, from the further -mountains. He saw the two long ridges that enclosed his particular part -of the plateau, and the last light of day gleamed on their tall, white, -snow-laden peaks. These were the high Rockies; sentinel mountains grand -and austere. - -These mountains looked just at hand in the daylight, but now in the -gathering gloom they seemed to be receding into the infinite distance. -The attention of Hugh Gaylord was not usually held by mere scenic -beauty, but to-night, for a lone, long instant, he felt vaguely stirred. - -Then a faint, sharp sound reached him through the growing silence. It -came from an amazing distance, and but for the fact that all his senses -had been unusually alert he would not have discerned it at all. All that -was left of it was a faint prick in the eardrums,—a noise that a beetle -might make in the leaves. - -“Did you hear something?” he asked his guide doubtfully. - -“Yes,” the Indian replied. “Little noise. Know who made it?” - -“A shot?” - -“Yes. Maybe ’nother hunter, but they don’t often come here. Over toward -sheep camp. But gotto hurry heap—get whisky—come back while plenty -light to see.” - -Hugh nodded, and they headed up the ridge. - - - - - CHAPTER IV - - -It was written, by those special jungle gods that plan entertainment for -tenderfeet, that Hugh Gaylord should get some slight taste of the real -mountains on his walk to the sheep camp. It was only a mile, but the -trail was nothing whatever like the golf course that Hugh had been wont -to walk around on Friday afternoons. It was narrow and brown, and -hard-packed by the feet of the wild folk that had been passing up and -down that way since the mountains were new. They hadn’t been careful to -keep the grade under six per cent. There was also an occasional rock and -a rather frequent dead log that had to be leaped. Moreover the berry -vines scratched the face and caught at his clothes when the trail twined -between the heavier thickets. - -Hugh had been proud of his physical condition. He had been under the -tutelage of a high-paid physical director, and he could swing the Indian -clubs a startling number of times without fatigue. Before that walk was -done, however, the fine edge of his self-assurance had been somewhat -dulled. In the first place, the pace was rather fast. Pete the guide was -inordinately lazy and a wretched guide, but like most wilderness men who -get their exercise in walking game trails rather than in swinging Indian -clubs, he knew how to make the long miles slide under his feet. It is -not an accomplishment of a day—that bent-kneed, shuffling walk, -shoulders sagging and feet falling lightly—and it is far from graceful. -But it clicks out four miles in every hour through the long mountain day -without fatigue. It carries a man up mountains and into glens, and he -feels fresh at the end. To-night Pete was in a particular hurry. The -devils that dwell just under the dark skins of all his race were crying -for strong drink. Besides, darkness would be upon them very soon. - -The pace took Gaylord’s wind. It brought queer pains low in his chest -and an odd heaviness in his legs. But for all that, a physician could -have prescribed no better medicine for him. The sweat leaped from his -white skin and felt prickly at his neck and forehead, and the fumes of -alcohol departed from his brain. The truth was that in this deepening -twilight Gaylord saw more clearly than any time since his arrival at -Smoky Land. - -His senses became more alert, his eyes began to penetrate deeper into -the thickets. He began to notice dainty mountain flowers, and he took a -singular delight in the tracks of the wild things that had been left in -the trail. Here a coyote had skulked, here a wolf had raced along in -some chase of death, and here a cougar had crept by in some dreadful -business of a few nights before. His hearing was sharper, and once the -rustle of leaves above his head called his attention to a family of gray -squirrels, disporting on the limbs. He found himself watching, with -unexplainable interest, his guide. - -For the first time he marked clearly the silent tread, the peculiar -alertness of his carriage, and most of all the dark surface-lights in -his eyes. As they headed deeper into the thickets a strange change -seemed to come over the man. Perhaps the liquor was dying in him, too, -or possibly Gaylord’s imagination was playing tricks upon him. He -received an odd impression that hitherto his guide had been asleep and -had just now wakened. They were near the sheep camp now; they could hear -the faint bleat of the bedding animals, and the Indian seemed to forget -the other’s presence. All at once he began to stalk in earnest. He -slackened his pace: Gaylord behind him slackened his. The moccasined -feet had fallen softly before; now they seemingly made no sound at all. -The dark eyes brightened, the muscles rippled under the dusky skin, a -new vitality seemed to come over him. The truth was that this son of a -savage race had not undergone so great degeneration but that he still -responded to the age-old intoxication of the falling night. It was the -hunting hour, and Hugh could imagine the tawny cougar, Broken Fang, whom -he had come to slay, responding in the same way. - -Abruptly the Indian paused and held up his hand. Hugh crept near. - -“—— Big animal—close,” the guide whispered. “Maybe you get a shot.” - -Hugh stood still, listening. Far distant he heard the usual, faint -mysterious sounds that the early night hours always bring to the -wilderness world; but if anything, the primordial silence was more heavy -and portentous than ever. The snow peaks still gleamed faintly, and he -sensed their majesty and grandeur as never before. It was not alone an -impression of beauty. Beauty is an external thing alone: in this moment -of farseeing, he understood something of their mighty symbolism, their -eternal watch over the waste places. He saw them as they were: grand, -silent, unutterably aloof. - -“How do you know?” he asked, in reply to his guide. “I don’t hear -anything.” - -The truth was that Pete would have found considerable difficulty in -telling just how he knew. Rather it was a sixth sense, an essence in the -air that blunter senses could not have perceived. “We’re near -flock—maybe lot of varmints hanging close. Always is—around sheep. -Don’t know what animal came near just now—cougar, I think.” - -“Maybe old Broken Fang himself?” - -“I don’t know. Heap maybe not. Country’s big.” - -Pete was given to telling lies, on occasion, but he had told the truth -for once. Hugh’s eyes leaped from peak to peak, and he began to realize -something of the vast, tremendous distances of the region. They pushed -on, over the ridge and through the last of a heavy wall of brush. - -They came out on the edge of a small meadow,—one of those grassy, -treeless stretches that are so often encountered in the high ranges. -Silver Creek ran through it: a stream that was a “creek” only in the -Western sense. In reality it carried more water than many a famous -river. It was narrow, however, lined with thickets, and evidently deep -and swift. Five hundred yards beyond the great forest encroached again, -and the meadow was even more narrow, parallel to the creek. And at the -first glance Hugh might have thought that the meadow was covered with -deep snow. - -It was the sheep. They were bedding down for the night,—a flock that -could not contain less than three thousand ewes and lambs. They had -crowded so close together that they occupied, in all, a space hardly -more than a hundred yards square, and the only break in the white drift -was an occasional spot of inky black. These, in a moment’s inspection, -revealed themselves as black sheep,—animals that occur in every western -flock and are generally used by the herdsmen as markers. - -Their numbers staggered Hugh. He wondered how any one herder could care -for them. And he was suddenly amazed at the strange thoughts that -flooded him. - -The truth was that Hugh was an exceedingly sensitive man, finely tuned -to all manner of external impressions. Something about that snowy band -touched a side of his nature of which he had never been aware before. He -couldn’t quite identify the thoughts that stirred him. They dwelt in an -unknown realm of his being; he grasped for them but always they flitted -away. He held hard on himself and tried to understand. The sheep -bleated, the shadows grew over the distant mountains. He began to think -that the plaintive bleat of the sheep was playing tricks upon his -imagination. It sounded to him almost as a direct appeal for help and -protection. He realized at once the truth of a fact he had heard long -ago,—that sheep, above all other domestic animals, are dependent upon -men for their very lives. A horse may run freely in the waste places, -fighting off with slashing fore feet and terrible teeth such wild -enemies as molest it. The cattle can range far in comparative safety: -for even the great grizzly has been known to avoid the horned steer. -Even the hogs, half-wild in the underbrush, have some means of -self-protection. These sheep had none. - -But the thoughts he had went deeper than that. He was dimly aware of a -vague symbolism, a realization that in this mountain scene could be read -some of the great, essential truths of life. He had a curious impression -of being face to face, for the first time in his life, with -realities,—in spite of the paradoxical fact that a vagueness, seemingly -a bewilderment, was upon him. - -All his life Hugh Gaylord had dwelt in cities. He had traveled far: -sometimes in motors, usually in luxurious sleeping cars, occasionally in -steamships. Yet he had never really been outside of cities. He knew the -hurrying throngs, the great buildings, the busy streets. The shops, the -theaters, the gaiety had been acquaintances as long as he could -remember. He had never dreamed of a world without these things. Yet, in -an instant, all of them seemed infinitely distant. Strangest of all, -they suddenly didn’t seem to matter. - -It was an impression that all his life there had been a cloud before his -vision, and all at once he could see clear. Here, not in those swarming -cities, was reality. The cities had been built in a day; the other -factors that had been so necessary in his life—his clubs, his motor -cars, his amusements, even much of the great world of business—were -merely mushroom growths of a little handful of centuries that men called -the age of civilization. Strangely, they no longer seemed to him the -basic things of existence. Rather now, for the first time in his days, -he was face to face with life,—life in its simplest phases, with all -its unrealities and superficialities swept away. This was no vista of -the present: this scene of the white sheep bedding down for the night in -the dim light of the herder’s fire. Rather it was an image of the -uncounted ages. All the basic elements of life were here: the flocks, -the herder’s little shelter, the fire glowing in the falling darkness, -the watchful shepherd dog guarding the lambs, the beasts of prey lurking -in the growing shadows. - -There was nothing here to perish or change. It had been the same for -uncounted centuries,—since the first dim days when the nomads drove -their flocks over the plains of Asia. Cities are born, grow great, are -cursed with wickedness, and perish. The flocks still wander on the -hills. Men catch new fancies, follow new teachings, build new orders, -and pursue new ways. The firelight of the herder still glows in the -twilight. Civilization rises and falls like the tide. The beasts of prey -still lurk in the thickets to slay the sheep. Fashions, hobbies, -pleasures, habits and modes of life, faiths and doctrines, even kingdoms -and palaces start up, flourish, change and die,—and still the shepherd -dog keeps his watch. - -He was suddenly called from his reverie by the voice of the guide beside -him. “Fire’s about out,” the man said. “Time herder put on more fuel.” - -It was a commonplace remark, yet it compelled Hugh’s attention. His -startled eyes turned to the Indian’s impassive face. “It’s not cold -to-night,” he replied. “What’s the need of the fire?” - -The Indian made no immediate reply. He did, however, hold up his hand. -Hugh listened. Somewhere back of them in the thicket a twig broke with -miniature explosion. Then two leaves rustled together. - -“That’s why,” the Indian said. “Keep off varmints.” - -At that instant the dog discerned them and came barking toward them. He -was a beautiful shepherd—from his unusual size evidently a crossed -breed—and the light was still good enough for them to see his lustrous -coat, his powerful form, his intelligent head, his fine brush that he -carried high. The dog slowed to a walk, and Hugh spoke to him. A moment -more the animal was at his knees. - -Hugh had always been a dog-lover—giving his regard to an ill-mannered, -savage German police dog that lived a parasitical life at his city -house—and he knelt quickly to caress the shepherd’s head. And for the -second time that night he had a series of impressions that he could not -trace or name. - -They arose from the behavior of the dog. The animal seemed oddly nervous -and shaken, and the great, brown, lustrous eyes were full of singular -appeal. He ran from them a little way, barking, then returned as if he -desired them to follow him. “What’s the matter, old boy?” Gaylord asked. -“What’s up?” - -The dog barked again, coming to his arms for more petting. Then the -Indian dropped to his knees with a curious little cry. - -Pete the guide had an exceedingly good command of English for a -half-breed. But in that moment of astonishment the use of the language -fell away from him, and his only utterance was an exclamation in his own -almost-forgotten tongue. He rubbed his hand over the animal’s shoulder. - -“What is it, Pete?” Hugh asked quietly. - -“He’s creased. Dog’s been shot—bullet took away a little skin.” - -“The shot we heard?” - -“No. That rifle shot. The dog shot with pistol.” - -“And how in the world did you find that out?” - -“Not know sure—looks heap like a scratch by small-caliber bullet. -Couldn’t hear pistol shot so far.” - -“I’ve heard,” Hugh said thoughtfully, “that it isn’t good form—for a -herder to shoot at his own dog.” - -“Maybe not that,” the Indian went on. His tone was so strange and flat -that Hugh whirled to stare at him. “Fire’s burning out too—sheep -getting restless. Maybe better see where herder is.” - -“Don’t you suppose he’s in his shelter tent?” - -“We’ll look and see.” - -They started out into the clearing, the dog running in front of them. -The sheep, after the manner of their kind, paid no attention to them. -They walked swiftly toward the little tent beside the stream. - -The dog stopped, sniffing at something that lay in a little clump of -thicket. When still a few paces distant, Hugh thought it was one of the -black sheep, separated from the flock. The Indian, however, made no such -mistake. And he hardly turned to glance at it. - -“The herder’s other dog,” he explained. “Knew there ought to be two. -Better shooting this time.” - -Hugh felt a little stir of excitement. The black dog had been slain by a -small-calibered bullet, and his body was still warm. The Indian -increased his pace. - -A second more, and they were at the door of the tent. It was hard for -them to see clearly at first. The shadows were quite deep inside. And at -first they were only aware of a heavy, strange silence that seemed to -grow and deepen as they stood looking. - -The herder was not standing up to greet them. Neither was he busy at any -of his late-evening tasks. They made out his figure dimly, sprawled on -his blankets in one corner of the tent. - -“By Jove!” Hugh exclaimed. “I believe the beggar’s asleep.” - -But he didn’t speak quite the truth. In reality, he believed something -far different. It is the way of a certain type of man to avoid at all -costs any appearance or semblance of hysterics or sensationalism. Hugh -was of that type, and he unconsciously shrank from the utterance of his -true beliefs. - -“Not asleep,” the Indian replied bluntly. He stopped, walked into the -tent, and turned the man’s body in his hands. No wonder the camp fire -was dying. Its tender—the sheep herder—had been shot and killed a few -moments before. - - - - - CHAPTER V - - -Hugh Gaylord had never known a more mysterious hour than that in which -the darkness fell over the sheep camp. At the end of it he felt as if he -had lost himself in a dim and eerie dream and only the eternal reality -of the sheep, bedding down and bleating in the falling shadows, made it -credible to him. But the mystery did not lie in the qualities of the -scene itself. Rather it was in his own attitude toward them: a feeling -of familiarity and long acquaintance that he could not understand. - -It all seemed so natural and real. Even the dim twilight and the glow of -the dying fire seemed something vividly remembered from long ago. Yet -there was nothing here of the world he knew, the world of cities and -gaieties and throngs. There was nothing in his past life to explain the -intimacy he felt. At the edge of the little meadow the dusk deepened -between the trees. The strong profiles of the pines dimmed and blurred, -the distant peaks receded—with a curious effect of actual motion—into -the further recesses of the twilight. Here and there the stars were -pushing through, and he suddenly regarded them with some wonder. He -couldn’t ever remember noticing them in particular before. Perhaps the -smoke that ever hung over his city mostly obscured them; possibly he had -never had occasion to think about them. Now he was startled by the same -curious sense of familiarity,—as if he had lain beneath them a -thousand-thousand years and they were old friends come back to talk to -him again. - -They grew inexpressively bright. Their numbers increased, they filled -the sky, they grouped themselves in geometrical patterns and designs, -dropping down as if on invisible threads to the spires of the distant -pines. For one little instant, as he raised his eyes aloft, he was an -astrologer of old, and a knowledge of the ages was upon him. He felt -stirred to the depths of his being. - -He dropped his eyes to regard the sheep. The outline of the separate -animals was altogether lost by now: they were just a dim, white mass in -the faint glow of the fire. It was the same as always: they had all -bedded down for the night. He saw the light spring up in the herder’s -tent as the guide lighted a candle, and this was familiar too. - -The Indian came out and with strong, steady strokes began to break wood -for the fire. The swarthy face looked unusually dusky in the red glow of -the coals. As yet the two men had not discussed the grim find in the -tent. There had been scarcely nothing to say in regard to it. Hugh felt -no especial excitement or awe: he had been almost as cold and impassive -in regard to the tragedy as Pete himself. - -Such an attitude might have been expected in the guide, but it caused -some self-wonder to see it in himself. Pete was a wilderness man, and if -there is one lesson to be learned in the primeval forest it is the -reality and the inevitability of death. He was used to death. He had -seen it every day. All night long the ancient war of the wilderness -waged on, and many were its casualties. The night shuddered with them: -the agony of the deer in the cougar’s claws; the crunch of fangs when -the wolves tracked down their game; even the shrill, terrible death-cry -of the birds when the climbing marten overtook them on their perches. -Not for nothing does the buzzard watch all day from the clouds. _He -knows_; and whoever listens to the wilderness voices knows too. The -wild, despairing song of the pack, the wail of the coyote, even the -murmur of the pines is a song of death, immutable and dark, at the end -of their little days. But what did Hugh know of these things? He had -always lived a sheltered life. Yet now he felt no horror, no excitement, -only the realization that he was face to face with reality at last. - -The guide had heaped fuel on the fire and it threw a bright glare over -the whole camp. Hugh could even make out the dark border of the forest -at the extremities of its glow. Then the Indian turning back into the -tent, Hugh entered also. - -“Then the shot we heard was the one that killed this man?” he asked. - -“Yes. Pistol killed dog. Maybe we too far to hear shot.” - -“And you haven’t any idea—what could have been the motive, the reason -for killing him.” - -“Yes——” The Indian paused and stared down at the still form. - -“What do you think it was?” Hugh spoke very quietly. - -“Big fight—over the range,” Pete explained with difficulty. “This big -cattle country—cattlemen always try to keep out sheep. Maybe other -reasons too, but that began it. Always shooting—cattlemen and sheepmen. -This first flock anywhere near—first in this part of Smoky Land.” - -“Then it was just cold-blooded murder.” - -“Yes. No signs of a fight. Maybe shot him through tent door, then tried -to kill dogs. Killed one, wounded other. Now I cook supper.” - -The Indian, wholly without emotion, began to take stores from the dead -herder’s grub-box. He noted that the man’s supplies seemed almost gone, -only a few potatoes, a small piece of bacon in an oiled paper, and a -little flour remaining. The guide saw his look of question and made -explanation. - -“Camp-tender come soon,” he said. - -“And who is the camp-tender?” - -“Each sheep camp has two men. One herder. The other packs in -supplies—food for herder, salt for sheep. Come every two weeks, maybe -sooner, and camp-tender due here pretty soon. But he’ll find—plenty -sheep dead.” - -For once Hugh did not have to ask questions. The guide’s last few words -explained, in a measure, the motive for the murder. Without a herder and -with only one dog left to care for the flocks, the beasts of prey would -find easy hunting. “But we’ll stop that game,” Hugh said decidedly. -“To-morrow morning—to-night, if you think we can make the trail, we’ll -go in and take this man’s body to the coroner. Then the sheep owner can -send up another herder.” - -Hugh looked up to find an odd, grim little smile at the guide’s lips. It -was a thing to notice: this dark savage was not given to smiling. “You -don’t know sheep,” he explained. “You don’t know Running Feet—what he -can do in one night.” - -By intuition more than by actual interpretation of the words Hugh -understood. He studied his guide with growing wonder. For the second -time that day Pete had dropped back into his own speech. True, in this -case the language itself was Hugh’s own, but the idiom was, beyond all -denial, savage. He had revealed for an instant something of the strange -poetry of the Indian, as well as the Indian’s imaginative interpretation -of the wilderness. Running Feet, past all doubt, referred to some of the -predatory animals that habitually preyed on the sheep. - -“In other words—if we hadn’t discovered this murder, the flock would be -practically wiped out by the time the camp-tender got here?” - -“Maybe all gone.” - -“Even if they send up a man right away there will be some losses.” - -“We start to-morrow,” Pete explained laboriously. “To-morrow sunset -before we reach tel—tel—talk-over-wire? Another sunset, maybe another -sunrise, before herder can come all long way. Plenty likely can’t get no -one. Cattlemen rich—mighty—many. Maybe no one want the job.” - -“And we can’t start to-night?” - -“Trail too dark. Maybe couldn’t catch the horse. Run fast in the dark.” - -Hugh turned quickly. “What horse do you mean?” - -Pete smiled again, very dimly. “Eyes maybe half blind. Horse grazing -just inside the forest, just outside meadow. Herders always have one -horse, maybe two.” - -Hugh had not noticed: his eyes were not trained to penetrate the -thickets as those of the Indian. And at once he made up his mind as to -the morning’s work. After all, it was only decent to get word to the -owner of the flock as soon as possible. He would not permit his own -hunting trip to stand in the way. It was true that he had been looking -for a good excuse to return to civilization, and now he had it; but it -was not without some unexpected regrets. He had received a new point of -view in this visit to the camp, and he felt that he would enjoy a few -more days in the evergreen forest. But even the Old Colonel would -understand why it was necessary that he change his plans. In the morning -they would catch the horse, place the herder’s body upon it, and go down -with their story to the settlements. He wondered if there would be a -bereaved family to face; he hoped that this, at least, would be spared -him. The murdered man looked like a South-European, evidently of the -class of shiftless and uneducated men from which most flock owners have -to recruit their herders. - -His mind flew back to the Old Colonel, sitting in the Greenwood Club. -Some way, the memory of the old man was more clear than any time since -he had come. It seemed to him that he could remember, word for word, all -that the old sportsman had told him. Curiously he had not remembered -being so impressed at the time. In some dim under-consciousness he -realized that there would be further instructions for him now; but just -what they were he did not permit himself to guess. He was eager to -return,—go back to God’s country. - -After the simple meal, the guide prepared to go back to the camp after -some of the more valuable of the camp supplies and Hugh’s bedding. “And -where do you expect to sleep yourself?” Hugh asked. - -The Indian pointed to the herder’s bed, as if that explained the matter -completely. And, after all, why not? This was no time for nonsense and -hysteria. For once in his life, there in that far sheep camp, Hugh felt -that he was down to facts. - -He heard the departing footsteps of the Indian fading slowly to a dim -whisper infinitely distant. He was alone. He awoke with a start to the -fact that he was really alone for the first time in his life. At this -hour, in his own city, he would be either at his club or at dinner, in -each case surrounded by his fellow human beings. Servants slept within a -few doors of his room at his own house; his pleasures had always been of -a sociable nature. On previous nights in the wild he had his guide: what -loneliness he might have felt was forgotten in the fumes of strong -drink. For the first time in his life, it seemed to him, Hugh had a -chance to become acquainted with himself. - -His thoughts were singularly clear as he sat beside the camp fire. He -looked back over his past life, and it seemed to him that he was looking -for something in it that he could not find. He didn’t know quite what it -was. He wasn’t sure why he felt such a sudden, overpowering need for it. -Perhaps the name of it was _justification_,—and yet he could not have -told what was the high offense he wanted to justify. There beside the -sleeping flock new knowledge came to him, a realization of the great -themes and purposes of existence never known before. He felt vaguely -uneasy about his wasted days, wishing that he could see some -destination, some height, some star to which they were pointing. He had -an obscure feeling that all his life he had shirked responsibility; and -stranger still,—that in the deep realms of his spirit he was shirking -it now. - -The great shepherd dog came and crouched beside him, and the man held -the soft head in his hands. His thought went back to the pedigreed, -savage, characterless dog that he himself owned, and unconsciously he -compared the animals. The thought returned to him again and again, try -as he might to repel it. It haunted and disturbed him, and he didn’t -know why. His own dog had won numerous ribbons at the dog shows, he had -been bought at a fabulous price, and his pedigree went back many -generations. Yet by what fairness could the two animals be named in the -same breath? One was a slacker: the other a brave and faithful servant -of a great cause. One was an ornament in a dog show: the other -guarded—with his life if necessary—the grazing flocks. From dawn till -dark he was at his toil, through the blasting heat of summer and the -bitter winter cold, watching through the night and running through the -day. Hugh was not blind to the fact of his present fidelity: that -although his master lay murdered and he himself had been slightly -wounded, the brave animal still kept his watch over the sheep. He had -been busy at it when the two men had come, and even now his intelligent -eyes studied the shadows of the encroaching forest. Hugh felt a sudden -glow in his heart. His hands pressed tighter at the soft ears. - -A word came to Hugh’s lips and he spoke it in the silence. “Service,” he -said softly. “Old fellow, you give _service_.” Suddenly he knew that -this was the great debt that all living things owed: service in the -great cause of existence that no man fully understands. He tried to -remember what service he himself had given. Dim regrets swept over him. - -He rose to throw more wood upon the fire; then stood listening to the -voices of the forest. They were so faint and obscure that he had to -strain to hear them. It was strange that he had been deaf to them -before. They came whispering through the mighty silences, and they -filled him with haunting memories. At first the crackle of the fire had -obscured them, but as he waited the separate tones became more distinct -and permitted some measure of interpretation. He heard the rustling of -the thickets, the noise of flicking leaves dim as eyelids winking -against a pillow, the sad murmur of the pine limbs, scraping together. -Behind them all was the faint murmur of the wind,—a little wind that -had sprung up in the snow fields and was making a secret march down -through the thickets. - -Something of the same sense of familiarity that had come to him on first -observing the sheep returned to him now. It seemed wholly natural that -he should be sitting here in the silence, beside the flocks.—Throughout -the ages men of his breed had sat the same way, the firelight playing on -them, the faithful dog beside them. The wind whispered and stirred in -the wilderness just the same, the white sheep slept. Watching the -flocks,—the phrase was as old as the mountains themselves. - -Yet for a moment he found it hard to believe in the dangers of which the -guide had spoken: dangers that would soon exterminate the flock except -for the protection of herders and dogs. No scene could be more peaceful: -the dark forest so lightly stirred by the wind, the river singing past, -the soft firelight, the stars in the sky. The breath of the night was -sweet and cool; surely there would be no hurry about notifying the flock -owner of the herder’s death. He turned again to the dog. “You can take -care of them, can’t you, boy?” he asked. - -He glanced down, then stiffened with excitement. For once the dog did -not seem to hear him. The animal had got up and now was standing braced, -every nerve and muscle alert, gazing into the shadows beyond the river. -Hugh’s hand fell on the shaggy neck, but the animal didn’t start. And -the hair stood stiff like quills at the shoulders. - -“What is it, boy?” Hugh asked. - -The dog made no answer. Instead, a strange and terrible reply came from -the wilderness. It was a dreadful, a commanding voice, and it seemed to -freeze the whole forest world with horror. It obliterated the wind and -silenced all the little voices to which Hugh had listened with such -delight a moment before. It was a long, wild scream, beginning low in -the scale and rising to an incredible height. - -For innumerable seconds, it seemed to Hugh, the same crescendo note was -maintained. The air seemed to shudder. Then, with great soaring leaps, -the scream dropped away into a long, singsong whine. Slowly this faded, -growing dim and more dim, until it was just a dying whimper in the air. -Hugh couldn’t tell exactly when the voice ceased. He had a strange -impression that it still continued, only so dim and fine that human ears -were not tuned to receive it. Then the wilderness silence closed down -again. - -The dog leaped forward, barking, and Hugh found himself erect, with his -rifle in his hands. In his own heart he knew this wilderness voice. If -he did not know the breed that uttered it, at least he realized its -savagery, its age-old menace. There is no utterance that pen can -describe more wild and weird than some of the twilight cries of the -coyotes; yet Hugh was inclined to think that another, more deadly animal -had spoken in this case. On a few occasions he had heard members of his -club—back from hunting trips in the West—describe the cries of the -cougars or pumas: one of the most distinctive and awe-inspiring of all -the wilderness voices. It is not heard often. Many men have lived years -in the forest without ever hearing it at all. But once heard it is never -forgotten. Hugh believed that he had heard it now. - -And it had meant more to him than the mere night cry of an animal. It -typified to him the very spirit of the wilderness. It was the voice not -alone of a hungry creature, stalking in the shadows, but—in his -thought—it expressed all the ancient terror of the darkness, the -primeval forces that war with man. - -Nothing had changed. Still the sheep slept in the meadow and a great -beast of prey menaced them from the shadowed forest. The long conflicts -against the powers of the wilderness had not yet been won: the shepherds -of Judea might have known the same cry. The fire burned low, and it -seemed to Hugh that the shadows gathered menacingly about the sheep. - -Perhaps Broken Fang himself had spoken. Besides its menace and savagery -the voice had been also a living expression of power and pride that only -one of the greatest of wilderness creatures would possess. No craven -coyote, he believed, could utter such a ringing challenge. The dog raced -around the flock, seemingly ready to protect them with his life. No -wilderness voice was so terrible as to frighten him from his watch. - -And then, at the most wonderful thought of all, Hugh’s heart gave a -great leap in his breast. Watching the flock! That was it,—he was -watching the flock himself. True, the dog was still on guard, fearless -and constant in his vigil, but he could not claim all the guardianship -of the sheep. It was his own presence as much as the growlings of the -dog that kept the puma at a distance. Except for him, white fangs even -now would be tearing at the throats of the lambs. - -For the first time in his life he was _serving_. Was not his gun resting -in his hands? For once in his life he was bearing arms in the oldest war -that mankind knows,—the war against the menace of the wild. The blood -leaped and sang in his veins. - - - - - CHAPTER VI - - -In the hour before Pete, the guide, returned with camp supplies to the -sheep camp, Hugh had a chance to observe various things about this -mountain land of which he had never been aware before. He sensed, for -really the first time, the mystery of the forest in the darkness. The -domain of man, it seemed to him, extended just to the limits of the -little meadow where the sheep were bedded: beyond that lay the Kingdom -of the Wild. He saw, with an inner gladness and stir, the long outline -of the high range against the pale western sky,—the one part of the -firmament the darkness had not yet completely over-spread. The peaks -seemed to rise to the upper reaches of the heavens; between them he -could see the sweeping concave line, rough-edged, of the pine forests. -He learned certain things concerning the way the firelight leaps into -the shadow and the darkness comes racing back. He heard the various -overtones, known only to a woodsman, in the crackle of the fire. At the -end of the hour he beheld an even greater mystery. - -At first it was just a smear of silver, suddenly catching his eye, in -the darkness of the east. It grew, it extended; clouds were ensilvered -by it and broken apart; it gleamed with indescribable beauty, and in a -moment it evolved into the moon. The orb rose higher, the beams slanted -down. - -But the enchantment of the forest only seemed to deepen beneath it. Only -at intervals could the beams penetrate between the trees, and the silver -patches that came, now and then, between the trunks only mystified the -eyes. And it soon became an indisputable fact that these patches were -not motionless and unvarying in outline as Hugh might have expected. -Sometimes they blended and moved; and once or twice a swift shadow -flicked across them. There was only one explanation. Living -creatures—beasts of prey such as always linger about the sheep -flocks—hovered at the border of darkness ready to swoop forth. - -Pete returned soon after and began upon the simple tasks of the night. -He went to the edge of the forest, returning with a bundle of fir boughs -for Hugh’s bed. He chopped more fuel, and once he mystified the Eastern -man by some hurried business in the dead herder’s tent. He seemed to be -making a frenzied search for something that he needed very badly. - -He found it at last, and a moment of drama resulted when he came forth -into the firelight. A dark bottle was clutched in each of his hands. -Hugh glanced at them, then looked with even greater interest at the deep -lines in the guide’s face. - -“I’ve found ’em,” the Indian told him eagerly. “Knew sure he had ’em -somewhere. Fire water.” - -The blood leaped once in Hugh’s veins, and a great desire seemed to set -fire to his brain. For a moment it seemed to cost him all power of -thought. His hand started to reach forward. Then, almost as if the -gesture had been inadvertent, he drew it slowly back. - -He smiled; and his eyes gave no sign of the vision that was before them. -The Indian’s sight was keen, but he had no realization of the grim and -terrible battle that was being waged in the man’s own soul. There was no -outward indication of the convulsive wrench that had been necessary to -draw his hand back to his side. Even in that mountain silence, voiceless -as the interstellar spaces, the Indian could not hear the voice of -demons, shrieking within the man. - -The truth was that Hugh had just been given a glimpse into his own soul: -a sight that he had never really had before. He did not know from whence -such power of vision came. It was something the wilderness had taught -him in the hour that he had watched the sheep. He had always been ready -to deny that strong drink had any hold upon him whatsoever. He believed -that he had always drunk heavily because there had been no reason for -doing otherwise. That such a hold could exist upon any one of the -self-reliant, aristocratic circle in which he moved was simply one -admission that would never be made, but had rather been linked with the -offensive sentimentality that has constituted so much of the hue and cry -of over-officious prohibitionists. Yet in one single vivid second of -introspection he knew the truth. In this hour when all his best -instincts warned him to abstain, the craving was almost too terrible to -resist. - -But he won that fight at last. He would have been ashamed to admit it, -but little, icy sweat-drops had come out upon his forehead. And the -victory left him curiously sobered. For the first time in his life, it -seemed to him, he knew Hugh Gaylord as he really was. - -The guide still stood waiting. Hugh’s eyes swept to the flock. The two -of them were on guard to-night, and this was no time to blur the senses -with heady liquor. A hard task awaited them on the morrow. Besides—it -was dead man’s drink. - -“Put it back,” Hugh directed quietly. - -The Indian stiffened, and his dark face grew sullen. Hugh watched him -coldly. It looked like mutiny, and Hugh might have wondered at his own -composure, his confidence in his own ability to win this battle, too. - -“I don’t put ’em back,” the guide retorted. “He—won’t need ’em now. Why -put ’em back?” - -“The reason why,” Hugh explained in a passionless voice, “is because I -said so. I remember—I’d forgotten it until now—that there’s a national -law against giving whisky to Indians. Besides—you’ve got work to do -to-morrow, and I want you to be fresh.” - -It was the first time since his arrival in Smoky Land that he had -mentioned the man’s race. He knew that he ran the risk of wakening -savage anger in the Indian’s breast. Yet he was willing to take that -risk. - -“What you got to say about it?” the Indian responded insolently. “We go -back to-morrow. Job’s over. You ain’t given it to me. I found it. Come -on—maybe take a little drink together.” - -At that instant Hugh remembered that he was of a dominant race, and the -familiarity of the remark grated somewhat unpleasantly upon him. He got -up rather leisurely. He felt that in case of emergencies he preferred to -be upon his feet. “Put the bottles back,” he said again. “I happen to be -in command of this expedition. If you don’t obey, I’ll fire you right -here—and you know what that would mean as far as ever getting a job as -guide again. Put ’em back and put ’em back quick.” - -The Indian’s expression changed. The sullenness gave way to surprise; -then—to some measure, at least—to respect. He turned and walked back -to the tent. Then Hugh heard his powerful strokes as he cut more fuel -for the fire. - -Hugh went to bed soon after this, and the night hours began their -stealthy march, one after one, across the spaces of the wilderness. The -two men had only a few more sentences of conversation. The silence and -the mystery had seemingly taken out of Hugh all desire to talk. - -“You told the truth, Pete, when you said this job was almost over,” Hugh -remarked from his blankets. “And I’ve been thinking of something. If -you’d help me load it on, I might be able to pack that poor devil down -to the settlements by myself. You could stay here, and I could hunt up -the flock owner and get him to give you a steady job as herder. He’d be -grateful enough to you for staying to watch his sheep so that he’ll -gladly do it. How would you like that?” - -The Indian grunted. “Me no sheep herder,” he said distinctly. - -Hugh marked the tone with some surprise. Its inference could not well be -mistaken. Evidently Pete felt himself much above such an occupation. - -“I thought you might like to be,” Hugh responded pleasantly. - -“No. Only dagoes and Mexicans sheep herders. I’m a guide. Other herder -got shot. Maybe I get shot too.” - -Hugh didn’t pursue the subject further. After all, he couldn’t blame the -man. By the code of the West it was degrading work; besides, the war -with the cattlemen made it as perilous an occupation as could well be -imagined. The glimpse of the still form that the guide had rolled in a -blanket and which now lay outside the tent door was evidence in plenty -of this fact. - -He lay on the buoyant, fragrant fir boughs, watching the dancing -shadows. The wilderness stirred and whispered with life. The sheep -slept. The moon that had looked upon many shepherds shone on his face. - -This same moon meant good hunting to the wild creatures that ranged the -forest about the little meadow. It was hard for them to work in the -utter darkness. And one can only imagine—because no naturalist has ever -yet been able to know in full the inner natures of animals—the thrill -and the exultation that had passed from border to border through the -wilderness world when the great white disk first rose above the -mountains. - -“The hunting hour” was the word that passed—in the secret ways of the -forest—from mouth to mouth. The wind seemed to carry it, and the whole -wilderness thrilled and pulsed with it. Wild, hot blood leaped in savage -veins; strange terrible lights sprang up in fierce eyes. “It is time to -start forth,” the whisper passed: and the whole wild-life kingdom seemed -to go mad. - -It was a rapturous, an exultant thing, and human beings—jaded with too -many centuries of repression that men call civilization—find it hard to -understand. Only those who have stood in a duck blind watching a flock -of mallard swing down toward the decoys, only those who have lain -pressed to the slide rock and seen the mountain sheep, the incomparable -Bighorn, in a long file against the snow, or those who have beheld the -waters break and explode as the steelhead strikes can comprehend this -wilderness ecstasy at all. The smells on the winds, the little hushed -noises in the thickets, the startled waverings of shadows all added -their influence; and the blood-lust came upon the beasts of prey. - -It was their long-awaited hour. It was their time of triumph: stealth -and strength, fang and claw, the stalk in the shadows, the leap, the -blow, the feasting in the moonlight. The she-wolf came creeping from her -lair, her cubs behind her, and all of their eyes were just so many twin -circles of green light in the darkness. Were not the deer feeding on the -ridges? The coyotes skulked in the shadows about the sheep camp; the -lynx went stealing toward the perches of the mountain grouse. The -hunting fever spares none of the flesh-eaters, and from the smallest to -the great—from the little, deadly, white-fanged mink following a -rabbit’s trail beside the river to the mighty grizzly, stalking a cow -elk in the thicket—they felt in their veins the age-old stir that is -ever new. - -But there was one resident of Smoky Land that felt it more than any of -his neighbors. In the first place he was a feline,—and that means that -he was just a bundle of singing, vibrant, hair-trigger nerves. For sheer -sensuality there are no creatures on earth to equal the cats,—and he -was king and monarch of all the breed. The animal that catches his prey -by an exhausting run, a simple test of wind and limb, cannot from the -nature of things feel the wild rapture and suppressed excitement of one -that stalks and leaps from ambush; and the cats are the foremost -exponents of this latter method of hunting. - -There were certain private reasons, too. Part of the hunting fever is -due to pride, a sense of power and might. A lowly skunk, trotting along -looking for fledglings, must have a hard time persuading himself he is -very great and powerful, but this oversized monarch of the cat family -had no difficulty whatever. In his time—and his years were rather more -than is best in the wilderness—he had seen the bull elk turn from his -path, and _that_ is a sight to pass down to one’s cubs. Even the old -black bear, the honey-grubber who is, after all, the most lovable spirit -in the forest, had been known to speak politely when the two of them met -on the trail. Those who know Growl-in-the-throat can appreciate what a -triumph this was,—because he rarely goes to any particular trouble to -be polite to any one. This didn’t mean, however, that even in his best -days the great cat cared to engage him in a fair fight. -Growl-in-the-throat was a honey-robber and an eater of fat grubs; he was -forgetful and awkward and given to long weeks of sleeping; but he was -living, forked, chain lightning in a hand-to-hand fight. No, it was -rather a good thing to keep at peace with Woof. - -But the coyotes, the lesser felines, even the wolves—making perfectly -good meals off one another when they got the chance—were all fair prey -to this tawny forest monarch. It made hunting pleasant. He didn’t always -have to be careful to see that he was not being hunted himself. It gave -him a certain complacency and arrogance, and he expressed it from time -to time in a long, wild, triumphant scream that lesser members of his -family were ordinarily afraid to utter, lest it should call their -enemies down upon them. - -Just as the dark came down he had uttered the cry, and he had tingled -with savage ecstasy as it echoed back to him. He had seen the first -glint of the moon, and the green glare played in his terrible eyes as he -started out upon his hunting. The moonlight showed him vaguely, huge and -sinuous and graceful past all words, as he stole through the forest on -the way to the game trails of the ridge. - -He flattered himself that not even the wild creatures, dreading or -waiting for just this moment, had ears keen enough to hear him. A -perfect stalk had been his pride, in his younger days, and he still -assumed that he possessed it. Time was when his stealing feet—in which -his terrible talons were even now encased ready to thrust forth—fell -soft as pine needles on the trail. If indeed he were past his prime, at -this hour at least—just as the moon rose—he would not admit it. - -He opened his savage mouth, and for an instant the moonlight gleamed on -the white teeth. The forest people could not have mistaken his identity -thereafter. One of the great dog-fangs had been broken sharply off in -some stress of years before. - -He was the great Broken Fang, the monarch of the cougars. Was not the -trail cleared, for long distances ahead, of all the lesser hunters? And -yet this triumph brought no pleasure, for it led to the undeniable -inference that his feet had spoken loudly, rather than whispered, on the -narrow path. - - - - - CHAPTER VII - - -Of the three that lay beside the sheep that night, Hugh slept lightest -of all. He missed the effects of strong drink. Night after night—more -of them than he liked to remember—he had gone to bed half-torpid from -the after-effects of the poison in his veins; but to-night he was -singularly alert and watchful. The mountain air got to him for the first -time since he had come to Smoky Land, and it invigorated him. Besides, -perhaps his mind was too busy with thoughts to yield quickly to slumber. - -The Indian came of a race that ordinarily sleeps lightly as the wild -creatures—a habit learned by uncounted generations in the wild. It is -good—wilderness people know—to be able to spring out of a dream and be -instantly alert and ready for any crisis. But to-night he neglected the -fire. And of course the late sheep herder slept soundest of all. Loud -must be the alarm to waken him. - -The night hours passed, and Hugh stirred and muttered in his half-sleep. -He was troubled with curious dreams; and even on wakening he didn’t know -quite what they were. It seemed to him that some one had been trying to -tell him something to which he did not want to listen. He kept trying to -shut his ears, yet the words got through. They were accusing words, -damning him for shirking a great responsibility that had been put upon -him. He could see the scorn in the accuser’s face. He was facing some -sort of a test, and he broke beneath it. - -He would rouse himself, listen to the mysterious sounds of the night, -then drop back to sleep. He couldn’t get away from a recurring dream -that some terrible Foe was lurking in the shadows just beyond his -vision, ready to swoop down on one who was very weak and helpless; yet -he wouldn’t stay to fight it off. - -Once or twice he got up to mind the fire, and at such times the night -noises reached him with startling vividness. Dawn was nearing; the sheep -were stirring and uneasy. Once more he went to sleep. For a little while -all his dreams departed. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. - -“Get up,” a voice said in his ear. “We got start now—make it down by -night.” - -He opened his eyes. The forest world was still lost in darkness. True, a -faint grayness had spread over the east, but the moon still rode vividly -in the sky. And, yes, the sheep had got up and were feeding in the -grass. - -Hugh leaped to his feet. The guide had already rebuilt the fire; and the -two of them went about the tasks that were necessary before departure. -Pete caught the horse, Hugh himself completed the cooking of breakfast -that the guide had already started. He watched with an extraordinary -fascination the grim, certain motions of the Indian as he prepared the -herder’s body for the day’s journey. The animal was saddled, the -stiffening form tied on. Hugh helped put out the fire—the last act of a -real woodsman when he breaks camp—and laid out food for the dog. A few -moments more and they were ready to go. - -“You’re sure you won’t stay—and take a job as sheep herder?” Hugh -asked. - -“Not me,” the Indian replied. “Herder shot—me shot next.” - -“There’s no reason for thinking you would be shot.” - -“You don’t know cattlemen—Landy Fargo—José Mertos—Besides—Pete got -other work to do.” - -Perhaps it was true. The guide had other work to do. Hugh glanced toward -the flock. The animals were not bunched so closely now, and some of the -lambs were feeding at the very margin of the river. Their numbers, now -that they were widely spread, seemed greater than ever. - -The shepherd dog came running to him, and Hugh bent to caress him for -the last time. He held the head in his hands and looked into the brown -eyes. The dog’s gaze did not flinch as is usual when his majesty, man, -looks into the eyes of one of the lower creatures. Instead, Hugh -couldn’t get away from a haunting idea that the dog’s expression was one -of pathetic appeal. It was almost as if the animal had spoken in words, -and Hugh could not laugh at his own discomfort. “Aid me,” the dog seemed -to say. “Help me keep my trust. The odds are long against me, so give me -your aid.” - -The dog leaped from his arms; then ran forward a little way, barking, -toward the sheep. But Hugh laughed and called him back again. - -“Good-by, old fellow,” he said. “Mind the sheep!” - -The dog whined softly, and Hugh tried not to understand. - -“There’ll be a herder up here in a day or two, if the owner can procure -one. And I’ve left out food for you. Good-by again, for the last time.” - -But the concluding words of that farewell the animal did not seem to -hear. Hugh felt him stiffen in his arms and saw that the intelligent -eyes were gazing away, over the flock toward the river. Hugh followed -the line of sight, but all he could see was the shadows, bleached here -and there by the bodies of the sheep. Then the dog leaped frantically -from his arms. - -Hugh watched him till the shadows hid him, saw him encircle the wing of -the flock, and race at top speed toward the river. It was as if a -message had come to him to which Hugh was deaf, that the dog’s eyes had -discerned some occurrence on the distant river bank that Hugh himself -could not see, and, obedient to a great law within himself, true to a -deathless trust that had been bestowed upon him, had dashed forth to -give aid. - -And the miracle was no less than Hugh thought. The dog _had_ gone to -give aid, and no man may say by what avenue of sense, by what -inscrutable means he knew that aid was needed. The distance seemed too -far for eyesight. There was no actual voice in the air that Hugh could -hear. On the green bank of the river one of the ewes raced up and down, -bleating pitifully, evidently in great distress. Hundreds of sheep were -bleating at the same time, and it seemed hard to believe that the dog -could have distinguished a note of distress, unheard in the others, in -her voice. She seemed to be gazing in frantic terror down into the wild -and seething cataract. - -Far across the meadow Hugh did not hear and he did not heed. He turned -to the guide, waiting at the horse’s head. “Lead the way,” he ordered. -“There’s no use of our waiting any longer.” - - * * * * * - -Broken Fang, the cougar, had had a discouraging night. Never in his long -years could he remember a time of darkness when the hunting had been so -barren of results. Now the dawn was coming out, and not even a rabbit -had been caught to appease the gnawing hunger within him. - -He wouldn’t have liked to admit the true explanation: that he had seen -his best days. The cougar shares with all living things a resistless -propensity to grow old, and already his years were many. He had had his -day. The deer that had died in his talons, even the elk that he had laid -low with one lightning, terrible bite to the throat would make a number -not pleasing to contemplate by lovers of the wild game. It is to be -remembered that an ordinary cougar will kill two deer a week, year on -year, until the buzzards come to feed upon him. Broken Fang was no -ordinary cougar: for more years than the swan could remember he had -ranged through Smoky Land, killing as he went. He had felled the horned -cattle; in one starving winter he had fought Cry-in-the-night, the wolf, -and had mastered him; he had taken the old tusked boar gone wild in the -underbrush. He knew the hunting craft to the last wile, and time had -been when a cat-tail plume, falling on the reeds, made more noise than -his own step. But he was old: his unusual size proved that fact. By the -same token was revealed his past prowess: only an animal that had -surpassed in all the wiles of hunting and self-preservation could live -to attain such a growth. But to-night—the deer had fled from him before -he ever got within leaping range. - -The wind had been right, the thickets had hidden his advance, the magic -and the thrill of the hunting hour had been upon him. No human ear could -have discerned his approach on the winding trail. But the difficulty lay -in the fact that the deer have not human ears, but rather marvelous -receivers as sensitive as the antennæ of a wireless outfit. Broken Fang -was growing old; some of his marvelous muscle-control was breaking; and -no longer could he accomplish a successful stalk. - -The triumph that he had felt the first hour of the hunt was quite dead -in him now. He would have welcomed any kind of prey. Just before dawn he -had come upon a porcupine; but even this unprepossessing game had -escaped him. It didn’t make a story that he would care to tell to his -cubs. There is a certain legend, in the forest, regarding those who -cannot catch a porcupine. - -“When Quill-back escapes the hunter,” the saying goes, “the buzzards -will be full-fed to-morrow.” - -The meaning is wholly simple to one who knows porcupines and buzzards. -There is no more awkward, stupid, guileless creature in the woods than -Quill-back, and the only reason why the beasts of prey haven’t wiped out -his breed centuries ago is because he is so fiendishly awkward to kill -and eat. One spine in the nose means days of agony, a few in the mouth -is apt to bring on slow starvation. And when one hunts porcupines, and -they escape him, it means simply that the hunter is getting so old and -so stiff that the scavengers may dine upon him very soon. In this case -Quill-back crept up a tree and crawled out to the end of a limb where -Broken Fang couldn’t get him. - -There was no more magnificent slayer in the whole woods than this huge -puma, yet he had gone for a full day without food. And it was not to be -wondered at that—just before dawn—the blood leaped in his veins anew -when he caught the smell of the sheep flock on the wind. - -He had killed sheep in plenty in his time, only on the far eastern -border of his range. He hadn’t known that any were to be found in this -part of Smoky Land. They were an easy game to kill, dying at one little -touch to the head or shoulder, and offering no sport at all to a bold -hunter of deer. Yet to-night he was in no mood to be discriminating. And -it was wholly possible that the smell of that flock seemed to grant a -new lease of life. - -To linger at the outskirts of the band, to kill when he chose, perhaps -even to know that most terrible of all wilderness lusts,—the feast of -death. All forest creatures know this feast: they have an inborn passion -for it that simply must almost tear them in twain. In all the world of -carnage and wickedness there is no debauch that is half so terrible, and -the first laws of the forest have decreed against it. For the -death-feast is not the rational, honest killing of the hunt. Rather it -is the thing that sheepmen dread above all things else: a perfect orgy -of slaying, not for food but from desire, the tearing-out of a hundred -throats in so many seconds. Yet was not Broken Fang the monarch of the -forest? What laws were there to restrain him? - -His long tail began to lash back and forth; his fangs caught the dim -light of the encroaching dawn as he crept like a serpent through the -thickets. The smell became even more plain, the fierce blood leaped even -more wildly in his veins. There was nothing here to fear: no leaping -camp fire to fill him with the age-old awe, no tall form of the herder -on constant guard. He could kill, kill, kill—as much as he -wanted—until the savagery in his heart was satiated. It was true that -human beings had recently been on guard, but their smell was dim, and -even now they were starting away, into the forest. - -He paused, taking full stock of the situation. Usually at camps such as -this there were, besides the herder with his death-stick, two dogs that -would die before they would permit him to touch the sheep. He knew -something about the fighting spirit of the shepherd dogs. He knew their -blind courage, their terrible ferocity, and he knew only one fighting -spirit to compare with theirs,—that with which the she-wolf guards her -whelps. Such dogs always seemed to partake of man’s own unconquerable -spirit and they were terrible to face. But to-night only one of the dogs -was on guard, and he could find killing in plenty before they should -come to grips. - -Then he drew up short, scarcely able to restrain a yowl of -disappointment. He was on the wrong side of the river. A veritable -torrent, deep and swift, flowed between. He came of a breed that has no -love for water. Of course he could cross in time, he could wander up and -down the bank until he found a dead tree stretching the full way over, -but he was in no mood for delays. There was a log here, true, slanting -down from his own shore, but it thrust down into water but a few feet -from the bank and offered no crossing. And his passion almost consumed -him at the sight of a ewe and lamb, just out of leaping range,—feeding -at the very margin of the river on the opposite bank. - -He shivered all over with excitement. He knew already the taste of the -red ecstasy in their veins. He knew—in his dark beast-fancy—the feel -of their soft flesh beneath his own terrible talons. He lay still, -watching greedily. - -But the forest gods were good to him, after all. He couldn’t see just -what happened. The whole tragedy had occupied but a miniature fraction -of a second. Perhaps the bank gave way, possibly the sure little feet -missed their hold, or a rock rolled and struck from behind. No matter -the cause, the result was the same: the ewe stood alone on the margin. -The lamb—a white, dainty creature whose flesh was soft and warm as a -bird’s—had fallen into that raging torrent, had been swept down the -stream, and as if by a miracle had been hurled into a thatch of dead -sticks and driftwood that had been wedged between some of the great -bowlders of the river bed. - -The glaring eyes beheld its struggles and his own triumph. It was as if -the forest gods had planned the whole disaster for his especial benefit. -The barrier of the river was an advantage now: such guardians as kept -watch over the flock could not cross those frightful waters to fight him -off. He had only to steal down the log that slanted into the water, -stretch out a paw to the white struggling figure half-submerged in the -raft of driftwood, and snatch it up to his own remorseless fangs. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII - - -For the first dozen paces up the trail Hugh tried to shut his ears to -the frenzied barking of the dog. He found it hard to believe that the -animal was merely rounding up the sheep, keeping them in a compact herd -as he had been trained to do. It wasn’t the same cry that he had -listened to before. It had an angry, warning quality, a threatening note -as if it were trying to intimidate some enemy of the sheep. Then Hugh -began to believe that his own fancy was carrying him away. For it seemed -to him that the animal’s voice had an actual undertone addressed to -himself,—an appeal for aid before it was too late. - -But, after all, he was not responsible for the flock. They were not his -sheep. He had not been employed by the flock owner to care for them; and -the idea of Hugh Gaylord, member of the Greenwood Club, acting as sheep -herder was simply laughable. It was not his war,—that in which the -herder had been struck down. He was anxious to go back to his own kind, -to take up anew his old carefree life in his home city. - -The dog’s bark rose to a veritable clamor. Then he came racing back -toward Hugh. - -He approached within twenty feet of him, barking, then started back -toward the river. Still Hugh did not follow. The dog rushed forward -again and again turned. He didn’t seem to be able to understand. Always -before the men that he knew hurried to his aid at a time like this. Hugh -felt a sudden rush of blood to his face. - -“Good Lord, Pete,” he exclaimed. “I’ve got to see what’s the matter with -that dog.” - -He caught up his rifle, then followed the dog to the water’s edge. The -river itself was a thing to stir the fancies. The dawn had not yet -broken and in the dim, eerie grayness the stream had lost all quality of -reality, all semblance to the sheet of sparkling water flowing between -green banks that Hugh had beheld the previous night. He felt a sense of -deepening awe. Rather, it seemed like some river of a Beyond, a sinister -and terrible cataract in a twilight land of souls, a Lethe flowing -darkly at the edge of a Hereafter. To a poet it might have seemed the -River of Life itself, deep, fretful, full of peril and tragedy, and -flowing from the beginning of the world to its end. - -When the waters struck the great bowlders of the river bed the foam -gleamed a curious, pale white in the twilight,—otherwise the waters -would have seemed like a dark void. The dog raced up and down the bank -in excitement, then half-entered the water. Hugh saw his difficulty at -once. He could not make headway in that raging torrent, and was trusting -to Hugh for aid. - -“What is it, old man?” he asked quietly, just loud enough to be heard -above the noise of the waters. “What do you want me to do?” - -The old ewe brushed close to him, as if she too looked to him for aid. -If the light had been better, he could have seen the despair and agony -in her quiet eyes. He studied closely the white patches on the river. He -did not have the feline’s eyes, to see plain in the half-dark, and the -dog’s were better able to penetrate the gloom than his. But slowly he -grew accustomed to the half-darkness, and he knew the truth. - -The lamb still struggled in the driftwood. And for one fraction of a -second he thought that he saw something else. - -It seemed to him that two strange, sinister lights suddenly glowed from -the thickets on the opposite bank; then went out. They were close -together, and they were round, and they were just alike. They were not -twinkling lights: but rather were a strange blue-green like the flame -that plays about an alcohol burner. No human being could have seen those -dreadful blue disks and ignored them: their terror went too deep for -that. Man knows the terror of lightning, the dread (as well as the love) -of fire, the fear of flooding waters, but he knows those two twin -circles best of all. They carry him back to the first great Terror; they -waken memories from the depths of the germ plasm; they recall the sight -of other such fiery spheres, gleaming in the darkness at the mouth of -the cave. Hugh’s heart seemed to pump an icy stream through his veins. - -But he forced his growing terror from him and made a swift study of the -currents. The lamb seemed doomed. There was no wading that frightful -stream. A log sloped down into the water from the opposite bank, but -there was no way to cross. The only hope lay in hurling himself into the -torrent, fighting his way to the middle of the stream, seizing the lamb, -and swimming with it to safety. - -The dog could not give aid. The river was a succession of great rocks -and treacherous whirlpools, the water was icy cold, and in the darkness -a swimmer might easily be swept downstream to his death. Hugh saw all -these things plainly. In his own heart he sensed an equal menace in some -dim form that waited on the opposite bank to combat him for those few -pounds of living flesh. And in that dim light he saw that only a few -seconds remained in which to attempt a rescue. The wild waters broke -against the rocks between which the lamb lay; and in a few seconds more -it would cease its struggles. - -It was only an animal, a baby sheep that was one of three thousand, a -little armful of warm flesh that would never be missed. To rescue it -would tax the last ounce of strength in Hugh’s body. It might very -easily cost him his life. It wasn’t worth it. By all the dictates of -good sense, the thing to do was to turn back, to leave the dog barking -at the water’s edge and the ewe mourning on the shore. There were no -human spectators to praise him for the deed or condemn him for its -omission. He knew that even if he were put on trial no sensible man on -the broad earth would hold it against him if he left the lamb to its -fate. - -Yet in that moment of inner trial a great and a serene knowledge came to -him. He knew—in one instant of vision—that it did not lay with the -shepherd to consider abstract issues of life and death. It was not for -him to try to balance the value of a lamb’s life with his own. His -business was to watch the flock. His work was to guard the sheep. -Nothing could come between. - -All the voices of prudence and good sense were stilled before the voice -of his own soul. He was afraid, but his fear could not come between the -shepherd and his work. He wanted to turn away; but a power greater than -his own will made him stand fast. The laws of his own being had given -their decree,—and they could not be denied. - -“All right, old fellow,” he said simply to the dog. “We’ll get the -little devil.” - -The dog plunged in. It was the voice he had awaited. The man dropped his -coat, his gun, and the small pack that he wore on his back, then ran a -short distance up the stream. And the muscles of his body seemed to -shiver and vibrate with strength as he plunged into the dark waters. - -Broken Fang, the cougar, had seen the dog and the man on the opposite -bank, and at first he had been afraid. He retained enough of his natural -caution not to wish to reveal himself at once. “Most of all, fear men,” -was one of the first of the long scroll of forest laws, and time had -been when he had shivered and skulked with fear at just the human smell -on the wind. But to-night he was very hungry. And the game was almost in -his claws. - -He hadn’t forgotten that he was the master of the forest, who had felled -even the horned steer. What were these slight figures to stand against -him? Many of the forest laws he had already broken; he might even yet -break the law that forbade the death-feast,—and why should he obey now? -A slow, terrible anger began to overcome him. - -He had missed his kill too many times that night. He felt a blind desire -not to run away but to stay and fight. He crept down nearer the water’s -edge, his glaring eyes on the two figures on the opposite bank. At that -instant he saw both of them plunge into the torrent. - -This was the action of the deer when the wolves pressed them close,—to -jump into the river to escape. These creatures were like the deer, a -breed known to him of old. Little Death the mink had done the same -thing, the night he had been so hungry and in which the miniature slayer -had slipped between his talons. The river was always a place of refuge -for those that were afraid. Thus it was plain that if the dog and the -man feared him there was no further cause for him to be afraid of them. -He crept out boldly, a magnificent, tawny figure in the dim light, on to -the log that led down into the water. His eyes shone with blue fire. - -Perhaps the dog saw him first. He swam with wide-open eyes. He had -jumped in almost opposite the little pile of driftwood where the lamb -lay and was immediately swept downstream. Hugh, however, had leaped in -farther up, and he had had a chance to work into the middle of the -current as he was carried down. - -He had always been a strong swimmer, and he needed that strength now. -The water was icy cold; it gripped him with resistless strength. He -fought it with powerful strokes, but it seemed to him that he was tossed -about like a straw. Even he headed upstream and out, not hoping to make -headway but only to offset, in some degree, the incredible power of the -current. He had never done such swimming as this before. Silver Creek -was not at all like the swimming tank in his athletic club. He gave his -whole strength; and it seemed to him that he was fighting for his life. - -His plan was to seize the log that extended down into the water, brace -himself while he rescued the lamb, and either climb up the log or be -carried on down and swim to the bank. He didn’t know that the log was -already occupied: that a great forest creature had come down to contest -the lamb’s life with him. He was full in the middle of the current, by -now; and then, with a powerful lunge of his body, his arms swept about -the log. - -He braced himself, then turned in order to reach the lamb. He reached -for a hold higher on the log. Something brown, with extended talons, -rested upon the rough bark within a few inches of his hand, and at first -he did not understand. Then the spray cleared from his eyes, and he knew -the truth. - -It was not a thing to forget: that wilderness scene in mid-stream in -which Broken Fang and this man of cities came face to face for the first -time. It made a grim and moving picture: the magnificent outline of the -great cat in silhouette against the slowly brightening eastern sky; the -lamb, struggling in the little patch of driftwood; the watching forest, -the dark river with its ivory foam; and the gray half-light of dawn -casting dimness over all. Yet there was no such folly as mistaking its -reality. The form on the log was not just a shadow, an image, a drunken -fancy. It was as real as the icy touch of the river and so near that he -could see the creature’s ears, lying flat against the savage head. - -Hugh’s head, shoulders and one arm were clear of the water: a few inches -distant gleamed the white fangs of the puma. The fight for the life of -the lamb was at close quarters at last. And Broken Fang had all the -advantage. He was above and had room in plenty to strike; he had only to -tap down with his paw or lash out with his deadly fangs. Hugh, on the -other hand, had braced himself against the log and had only one arm -free. - -It came to Hugh that he might give up his attempt to save the lamb, slip -back into the water, and be carried down out of the reach of the rending -fangs. But even before the thought went fully home he had taken the -opposite course. Perhaps it was because he was the shepherd—for the -moment at least forgetting and ignoring all things but his guardianship -of the sheep—and Broken Fang was an ancient enemy. Perhaps he -instinctively realized that if he turned even for an instant those -terrible talons would lash down at him. His instincts came sure and -true, and he knew he must make no sudden motions. He began to pull -himself upward toward the great cat. - -He knew one single moment of blighting terror when he thought that the -cougar was going to stand its ground. The animal crouched, his lips drew -in a snarl, he raised one foot with extended claws. He was the great -Broken Fang; and this creature that rose up from the waters was but a -fawn in strength compared to him. The lamb was almost in his grasp. His -sinuous tail twitched at the tip. - -It was the most terrible moment in Hugh’s life, a moment of test in -which the basic metal within the man was tried in the fire. He could not -turn back now. He shouted with the full power of his lungs; but on the -might of his own eye and will, on the old elemental superiority of man -over the beasts of the field and the fowls of the air rested life or -death. He was of the dominant breed, and if he forgot that fact for one -instant—in this moment of stress—those white fangs would lash out. - -For the first time in his life Hugh Gaylord had to rely on his own -manhood for success or failure. His wealth, his influential social -connections, breeding and birth and class could not aid him here. It was -simply the trial of man against beast, the power of man’s will against -resistless physical might. If he flinched, if he turned for an instant, -all was lost. - -His face was white as white foam, the lines cut deep like brands, the -heart of the man was like ice. Yet the eyes didn’t flinch. They burned -steady and straight,—into the glowing twin circles of blue fire just -above him. - -There was a long, strange moment of silence in which it seemed that the -river flowed like a soft wind. All the power and strength of his being -was at test. And slowly—snarling at every step—the puma began to back -away up the log into the thickets. - -Still Hugh held firm. He waited until the great cougar was ten feet -distant, then his arm shot out like a serpent’s head toward the lamb. He -seized it in a strong grasp, released the log, and yielded himself to -the full force of the current. As he swept down he saw the cougar—his -courage come back to him now that the masterful eyes no longer glared -into his—spring out with a savage snarl to the end of the log. But he -was out of reach now, and safe, struggling once more against the might -of the current. - -He fought with all his strength and slowly worked his way into the -shore. The guide came running toward him: the dog—fifty feet farther -down—pulled himself up, dripping and exhausted, on the rocky margin. -Hugh caught at the overhanging bushes and slowly he gained the bank. And -with a queer, dim smile he set the lamb down beside the ewe. - -It seemed endless moments before he felt able to speak. His breath -seemed gone, he felt weak as a child, his muscles ached and his wet -clothes chilled him, yet he felt strangely, deeply happy. He didn’t know -why. He was too tired for introspection. He only knew a great, -unfamiliar joy, an inner peace. - -“Don’t wait any longer for me,” he said at last when he got his breath. -Pete looked down at him in amazement. Hugh smiled into his dark eyes. - -“What you mean?” Pete asked in bewilderment. - -Hugh smiled again but felt too tired to explain. There was no use of -explanations: he didn’t know that he could find words for them. For the -moment he had lost faith in words: only deeds mattered now. He didn’t -seem to be able to tell why Hugh Gaylord, the son of wealth and of -cities, should yield himself to such folly. The body of the dead herder -still lay across the horse’s back: the fact that another week might find -himself in the same position could not matter either. - -“You’re to go on alone,” he explained quite clearly. “I’m going to stay -here—until some one comes up and takes my place—and watch the sheep.” - -For Hugh knew the truth at last. A new power, a greater strength had -risen within him. His eyes saw clear at last. In that wild moment in the -heart of the stream he had given service, he had risked all for a cause. -None of his old, soft delights had yielded one part of the pleasure that -had been his as his strong strokes braved the current; no false flattery -had ever been so satisfying as his victory over Broken Fang. It was -service, it was conquest, it was manhood at last. - -He had no sense of self-sacrifice as he made his decision to stay with -the sheep. The joy of strong deeds does not lie in self-pity. Rather it -was an inner knowledge that he had found happiness—at least the -beginnings of it—and only a fool would throw it away. He had no wish to -forego the first pleasure that life had ever given him. - -He started away into the forest with his sheep. - - - - - CHAPTER IX - - -As the dawn broke over Smoky Land, the sheep fed farther and farther out -from the camp,—a long, white column like a moving snow field against -the deep dusk of the forest. The light grew, the last stars faded, the -gloom of the underbrush evolved into distinct browns and greens; most of -the beasts of prey returned to their lairs. Unlike Hugh they had no love -for these daylight hours. Dawn meant the end of their reign. - -For the night has always been the time of triumph to the hunting -creatures. It is the hour of glory when fang and talon and strength and -stealth come into their own. Now the deer had left their feeding ground -and had gone into the heavy brush through which even a cougar could not -creep without being heard. The birds had left their perches, the little -underground people had retired to their burrows. In the nighttime the -dim, sinuous movements of the hunters’ bodies could hardly be -distinguished from the wavering shadows, but the deer made no such -mistake in the hours of daylight. Many of the flesh-eaters had not yet -killed, and those that had been successful found no pleasure in leaving -their warm, dripping feasts to the buzzards in the sky. Only the coyotes -and such low-caste people remained to hunt; and they didn’t stay from -choice. With them it was a simple matter of hunting all the time, of -seeking tirelessly with never a rest, that kept them fed at all. - -The reason went back to a curse that Manitou put upon the coyotes in the -young days of the earth. No one knows just what their offense -was—whether they were once dogs who betrayed men, or the fathers of -dogs that betrayed the wild by selling their sons into the bondage of -men—but not even a tenderfoot can doubt the severity of their -punishment and the depths of their remorse. Many of the voices of the -forest are dim and small, many of them are inaudible except to those who -give their lives and their souls to the wild, but the curse upon Running -Feet the coyote is usually made clear in one night at the twilight hour. -For the coyotes do not keep their afflictions to themselves. Their voice -suddenly shudders out of the half-darkness, a long wail broken by -half-sobs,—infinitely despairing and sad. - -Very few of the wilderness voices are joyful. Even the whistling of the -birds—close observers find out at last—have a plaintive note that -seems never entirely absent. No man can doubt the sadness in the wailing -cries of the passing geese,—telling of the bleak, glooming marshes -where they live and die. The winter song of the pack, the little -shrieking of pikas on the sliderock, even the murmur of the pines are -filled with the ancient sadness of existence, the old complaint of the -pain of living with only Fear and Death at the end. But none of these -voices contain the utter despair, the incomprehensible sadness of the -twilight cries of the coyotes. Thus wise men know that they—because of -some offense of long ago—have been accursed among beasts. - -They have been exiled to the rocky hills, they are afflicted with -madness in Indian summer, their pride has been taken from them, and all -of the greater forest creatures treat them with contempt. They are -driven from the game trails, and thus they have to do their hunting at -any time that offers, early or late. All of the larger beasts of prey -had now gone to their lairs and to sleep, but these gray skulkers still -lingered about the flock. - -Once Hugh caught a glimpse of a gray figure in a distant thicket; but it -was too far to shoot. An expert marksman would have felled him in an -instant; and Hugh began to regret that he had not—by taking to the -hunting trails in some of his wasted days—learned this art. Try as he -might he couldn’t see that he was in the least equipped for taking care -of the flocks until another herder could be secured. And for the first -hour he was deeply troubled as to the success of his undertaking. - -No man, he considered—not even the Innuits of the Arctic—knew less -concerning the white grazers than he himself. He had read no books about -them, and except for the fact that he had bought various all-wool -fabrics for his clothes and had eaten many a lamb chop, he had had no -dealings with them whatsoever. He hadn’t the least idea how to control -or care for the vast flock, when to water them and when to feed them -salt, at what hours they should bed down and what orders to give his one -faithful assistant, the dog. This animal, he concluded, knew worlds more -about the business than he himself. In his new humbleness he seriously -regretted that the barrier of speech prevented him from taking orders -from the dog. - -Fortunately Hugh was blessed with a sense of humor, and soon it came to -his aid. After the first doleful hour he found considerable amusement in -his own predicament,—a clubman with three thousand sheep suddenly -thrust upon his hands. He had read stories of men who had been given the -care of one or more babies,—and he laughed when he thought how his own -experiences had put them out of the running. Fifteen hundred babies, and -as many helpless mothers, all of them wholly in his care. He was tickled -all over, and after that he had no place in his mind for worry and doubt -about the outcome. - -And the fact that he regained his poise was the best thing that ever -happened for the sheep. Realizing his own ignorance he made no attempt -to herd or guide them. He was not in the least nervous or excited -himself, and thus there was no contagion of alarm to carry to the flock. -“After all,” he thought, “these brutes know what’s best for ’em better -than I know myself. Let nature take its course. Let ’em do what they -want and I’ll follow along and keep off the cougars; and of course, get -’em back to the camp at night.” - -The wisest herdsman on earth could not have given him better advice. He -didn’t hurry the sheep. But it was not because he had heard that old -Hebrew maxim,—that a lame herder takes the best care of sheep. The idea -is, of course, that a lame man does not walk fast and hurry his animals. -By letting them follow their own ways, he avoided the usual mistake of -an inexperienced herder in trying to keep his flock too close together. -They were Rambouillets—a breed in which the gregarious instinct is -highly developed—and they hung close enough together for general -purposes. They grazed slowly: Hugh had time to see the sky and the pines -and all the miracle and magic of the wonderland about him. - -Never, he thought, had there been a more sudden change in human -fortunes. Two little weeks before his own sphere of life had been -restricted by a few blocks of an eastern metropolis; he had been a -clubman, possibly—and he thought upon the phrase with a strange -derision—a social favorite. He had been what men call—without greatly -bothering to discriminate—a gentleman. He had lived the life that men -of his class were expected to live, drinking rather more than was good -for him, wasting time, and being frightfully and immeasurably bored. -Now—by the exigencies of the hour, by a single prank of fate—he was -simply a herder of sheep. He was giving all he possessed of time and -skill to a job that as a rule only Mexicans and uneducated foreigners -deigned to accept. He suddenly laughed when he remembered that—although -the flock owner and himself had not yet agreed on terms—he would -probably secure wages for the time spent. Two dollars a day, -perhaps,—such a sum as he ordinarily spent for cigarettes. Thinking of -cigarettes he delved into his pocket, searching for a new pipe that on -the advice of the Old Colonel at his club he had brought with him to -Smoky Land and which had not yet been tried. - -It had cost, he remembered, something less than a dollar. The Old -Colonel himself had passed upon it, explaining certain virtues in regard -to it that Hugh had since forgotten. “You’ll like a pipe,” the old -gentleman had said, “if you ever get into a real outdoor-man’s mood. -Cigarettes are all right, of course—probably don’t give you the -nicotine kick that a pipe does—but a pipe has been the woodsman’s smoke -from Sir Walter Raleigh and the Indians down.” - -He found the pipe and meditatively filled it with fragrant tobacco. It -was new, the taste of burning varnish was not wholly absent, yet he -couldn’t remember that his expensive cigarettes had ever given him the -same delight. It was a herdsman’s smoke, he thought, and for the time -being at least he was a herdsman. And the thought of refusing the meager -wage that the flock owner would be willing to pay for his inexperienced -services didn’t even occur to him. He wasn’t, he remembered, devoting -his time for nothing. And he was somewhat startled by the thought that -for the first time in his life his—Hugh Gaylord’s—time was actually -worth somebody’s good money. - -There would be a satisfaction in that little wage that he had never -received from the handsome checks that he got monthly from his trust -company. The clinking dollars would be worth showing to the boys at his -club,—trophies greater than the cups he had occasionally won at golf -and tennis. A herder of sheep,—that was the title and degree of Hugh -Gaylord, late of the Greenwood Club. The whole idea amused him more than -he could tell. - -The best of it was that no one would mistake his calling. He looked the -part. He hadn’t shaved—he remembered by the sudden feel of scratchy -whiskers on his chin—for three days, and he had the disreputable look -that usually results from such an omission. His outing clothes were -torn, drenched, soiled, and dust-covered. At first he had felt somewhat -uncomfortable in his unsightly togs; he had regretted the departure of -his usual well-groomed appearance, but now he actually rejoiced in his -disreputability. He wouldn’t have any trouble convincing the -camp-tender—when that mysterious gentleman should reveal himself—that -sheep-herding was his fitting station in life. He would make, he thought -with a laugh, a fairly plausible tramp. - -He had been greatly fatigued by his hard swim in Silver Creek, but now -he felt refreshed. And he found himself wondering at the ease with which -laughter came to his lips. It wasn’t the usual thing with Hugh Gaylord -at all. He found to his surprise that life was full of things to laugh -at: the incongruity of his position, the awkward antics of the lambs, -the grandmotherly concern of the ewes, the whole irresistible joke of -existence. Before, Hugh had laughed in really but two ways—one at wit -(usually the forced wit of a professional comedian) and the other in -scorn. One of these two ways, it seemed to him, had wholly left him now. -The ability to be really scornful of anything in the wide world had -seemingly passed away. The vision of himself watching the flocks had -brought a new tolerance, a new breadth of view toward all the world. -Never in his life, so far as he could remember, had he laughed from the -simple joy of life, the laugh of sheer delight. Somehow, he had never -learned to know delight in its true sense. - -Then Hugh came to a curious conclusion. He denied it a long time, but -slowly the facts to support it became too many to resist. It was simply -that in his past life—the life between which mighty mountains now -raised a formidable barrier—he had grown old before his time. Nor was -it kindly and wholesome old age that had come to him: the ripened wisdom -of venerable years. It was a false age, and it had given him a wholly -false outlook on life. Two weeks ago he had felt infinitely old and -tired, and now he had been born again. - -His vision hadn’t been quite straight. He had taken his own little -sphere of life to represent the whole magnificent sphere in which the -continents rise above the sea. Unlike all truly great people, unlike the -most worthy even among his own set, he had adopted an attitude of what -he flattered himself was sophistication. But he had not been a true -Sophist, one who could immutably separate the gold from the dross, one -who knew the infinite good humor as well as the remorseless travail of -life. He had thought that everything was dross. He had lost faith in the -world, conceiving virtue as the exception rather than the rule, doubting -the compensation of clean living, the sanctity of homes, the solace of -religion, the pride of good work, the purity of womanhood, the -immortality of ideals. And most of all he doubted happiness. He didn’t -believe that it existed. - -Yet all at once he had found it: a quiet, healthy happiness that was -constant as his own breathing. It lay, not in stimulation or in -pleasures between which the mood drops down, but in a clear, sweet level -of contentment, of personal worth, of time well spent, of existence -justified and destiny fulfilled. There behind that flock, tired of -muscle but still on duty, guarding with watchful eye and ready weapon, -Hugh Gaylord felt content for the first time in his life. - -If there was one blessing in particular that his false sophistication -had cost him it was that of simple faith,—the faith of children, faith -in the redemption of the race and the high constancy of the stars. It -meant, clearest of all perhaps, that he had lost faith in miracles. Yet -he now found a miraculous quality in this very happiness that had come -upon him. He had self-wonder no less amazing at the curious familiarity -and boundless peace with which he fell into the spirit of the sheep. - -He felt at peace. There was no other word. Could it be that he had come -into his own at last? All his life, it had seemed to him, he had carried -in the deepest realms of his spirit a vision that had now come true: -just the feeding flocks in the deep shade of the forest. He had the -strange feelings of one who—exiled in babyhood—catches the far gleam -of his homeland at last. - -It seemed wholly natural that he should be walking here—behind the -flocks—in silent vigil as the sun climbed up over the far, white peaks. -He had a sense of having returned, after long and futile wanderings, to -his own home. Always there had been blind, little-understood gropings in -his own soul, a reaching outward; and had he found his destiny at last? - -Up Silver Creek came the salmon, returning to their home waters for -their last days. Four years had they dwelt in the dark bewilderment of -the sea, but they came back to their own places in the end. Did they, -all through those four years of their exile, carry in the deepest -recesses of their beings a vision of their Lost Land to which they would -return to die? Did they know a vague bewilderment, blind gropings in -their fishy souls, an unfamiliarity with the gray wastes and the -incessant waves that was not to end until they could know again the -shallows and cataracts and waterfalls of their native river? Did peace -come to them then? It was repatriation,—and Hugh felt that he had -repatriated too. Only the exile had not been confined to his own little -life. Instead of four years it was—more likely—four generations, even -four centuries. He had been an alien in those far, tumultuous cities, -but he had come home to the open places at last. - -“You are an Anglo-Saxon,” the Old Colonel had said, and that had meant -that for as many years as could be counted in a day his people had been -tillers of the soil. The Anglo-Saxon was never one to gather into -cities. He knew the meadows, the forests, the feel of the earth through -the handles of his plow, the sheep feeding on the hillside. When his -land became too heavy with people—so that he could no longer see the -sun breaking forth in glory to the east because of city spires that rose -between—he was likely to set sail for the far places of the earth, -still to watch the sheep as they fed at the edge of the forest. His was -a people of the soil: before they learned to plow, their flocks fed in -the downs. The love of the soil had been bred into his race, warp and -woof, and the little generations of exile in cities could not take his -heritage away from him. - -The flock fed for about two hours, then bedded down to chew their cud. -Hugh was perplexed at first. He was somewhat fearful that a sudden -illness had come upon the entire flock. The dog, however, seemed to -understand. He came back to his master’s side and the two of them had a -little chat as the morning advanced. After a short rest the sheep got up -and started to feed again. - -There was really not much work for Hugh to do. Occasionally he would see -a small band of the sheep browsing off in a different direction from the -course of the main flock, but at such times the dog knew the exact -course of action. He would circle around the straying animals, cut off -their escape, and they were always glad to head back into the main -flock. It became increasingly evident, however, how difficult it was to -keep track of the entire band. Only the gregarious instinct of the -animals maintained their formation at all: in the dense woods he could -see only a small part of the flock at one time. He had no way of knowing -if various detachments had not already wandered away from the main band. -Of course he didn’t know the methods by which most herders guard against -this danger: by an approximate count achieved by keeping track of the -black sheep, or markers. It seemed to him also that the wolves and other -predatory animals had every opportunity in the world to lurk about the -flanks of the flock and steal the lambs. The truth was that losses were -sustained in this manner every day, and his presence alone prevented a -wholesale slaughter. - -About ten he decided it was time to turn the sheep. They had been moving -since before dawn: he wanted to give them time in plenty to get back to -the camp before night. He didn’t know how many rests they would wish to -take in the afternoon. - -He made a big circle about the flock, turning back at its head. He -supposed that he could make the animals wheel straight about in a -to-the-rear march, permitting those at the rear of the main band to get -first chance at the feed on the way home. The way of sheep, however, is -different. They executed what was more nearly a squads right, keeping -the same leaders. The great advantage of the scheme lay in the fact that -circling, they made the return trip on fresh feeding grounds. - -He felt increasingly thankful for the aid of his dog. He seemed to -interpret Hugh’s every wish. And when at the head of the main band, the -man got his first glimpse of Spot. - - - - - CHAPTER X - - -No observer could make any mistake about Spot’s position in the flock. -Through all the maneuvers of the great band he kept the foremost place; -and the other sheep followed him without question. The young and -inexperienced herdsman thought at first that he was the old “bellwether” -of the flock. - -But in a very few moments he had to reconstruct some of his ideas. In -the first place Spot was not old, and in the second he was obviously not -a wether. He was not wrinkled and withered like the old ewes: sheep that -had yielded their wool for many seasons. To Hugh’s eyes he looked like a -yearling ram; and rather amazing horns had begun to curve from his bold, -rugged head. - -Hugh was considerably puzzled. He was not a sheepman, but for the simple -reason that there were no other yearling rams in the flock he believed -that most of the previous season’s crop of male lambs had been sold as -wethers to the markets. The mature lambs were obviously kept apart until -the breeding season in late fall or winter. Some exception had thus been -made in the case of Spot. And Hugh found himself watching the sturdy -sheep with a singular interest. - -In the first place the animal lacked the uniform color of the other -sheep. His basic color was neither white nor black, but a decided dark -brown with white at the backs of the legs and the rump. This variation -of color immediately won him his name. He was the only sheep in the -flock with horns, and in some vague way the man realized that the -outline of his figure was entirely different from that of the ewes. - -Although he was massively and boldly built, there was an actual grace -about his motions not to be seen in the ewes. His form looked lean and -hard, for all its massive development, and he stood several good inches -above the tallest ewe in the flock. Hugh found it hard to believe, -however, that he was some imported, high-bred yearling ram that would -later be used to help build up the standard of the flock. In spite of -his exceptional height and strength, his trim body probably weighed less -than some of the fat ewes, his wool was not unusual, and certainly one -of his rugged, agile form would not yield tender mutton. The man found -it increasingly difficult to explain his presence in the flock. - -Hugh tried to head him off, only to find that he was surprisingly quick -on his feet. Only because his flock were unable to follow him and the -young ram whipped back to join them was Hugh able to round him up at -all. And when he darted off in a half-circle the whole band came -pell-mell after him as if, young as he was, they were afraid to trust -themselves without his guidance. - -The longer Hugh looked at him, the more he was marked from all the other -sheep in the flock. Of course it was possible that the mere fact that he -was a male of the species was enough thus to distinguish him; yet -ignorant though he was of the ways of sheep, Hugh found this explanation -insufficient. In the first place Spot was just a yearling and evidently -not yet mature. He could not imagine some of those strong-minded old -ewes trusting their lives and fortunes to any ordinary immature ram. But -this creature had a carriage not to be seen in the others, seemingly a -spirit and pride and self-reliance that didn’t quite fit in with the -nature of domestic sheep. His very stride revealed a bold, fearless, -domineering disposition. - -He did not graze easily, as did most of his followers. He skipped about -across the whole front of the flock, now perching upon some lofty crag, -now scampering up a narrow trail where the flock could scarcely follow. -But in the hot, still late afternoon, as the sheep were beginning to -stir after a long rest in the forest shade, Spot gave him even further -cause to wonder. - -To Hugh, it seemed the hottest hour of the day. His human sense, -however, misled him: in reality, the highest point had been reached, and -the cool winds from off the snow fields were on their way to bring -relief. The sheep were still resting in a compact band: Spot, at the -extreme front rank of the flock, had climbed upon a little rocky -eminence on the hillside. It was such a promontory as is to be seen -often in the high Rockies, an outcropping of the rocky skeleton of the -hill emerging—like the end of a broken bone through the flesh—from the -brown earth of the hillside. It was such a place as the wolf chooses for -her lair, and the poison people—the gray speckled rattlesnakes whose -bite is death—like to stretch out upon through the long, still -afternoons. Because it overlooked the whole glen and was at the edge of -the stony hillside where he had been doomed to live, Running Feet, the -coyote, found it a convenient place to look for game. - -Why Spot had chosen such a place for his rest Hugh could not guess. It -was not shaded and comfortable like the glen beneath. Nor did he lie -down like the ewes below him, but stood alert, head up, nostrils open to -receive any message that the wind might bring. Hugh found himself -watching him with fascinated interest. It seemed to him that the animal -was on guard over the flock, even as he himself and the dog,—a watchful -sentinel for any danger that might threaten them. - -If it were true, he had a right to his wonder. The domestic animals do -not ordinarily appoint one of their number as a sentinel. They have -depended on the protection of men for so many generations that this -habit has died from the breeds. The wild creatures, however, still -retain it. If indeed the ram should detect danger for the flock, there -was no conceivable refuge for them, so there could have been no -conscious intelligence behind the act. It was obviously a -long-remembered instinct. Any of the fleet-footed hunters of the wild -could overtake them, and the slaying was easy even for a little lynx, -biting sure and true. - -No one knew this fact any better than Running Feet, the coyote, emerging -from the brushy thickets of the hillside in late afternoon. His second -name was Coward—cowardice was part of the curse that Manitou had put -upon him—but even a seasonal fawn would be brave enough to attack a -sheep. It might be, approaching in the shelter of the thickets, he could -get close enough to the flock to steal a lamb or ewe from its flanks. - -It was not that he had forgotten the shepherd dogs that kept watch, or -the herder with his gun. Running Feet was never able to forget things -like these. Part of his curse was a far-reaching and calculating -intelligence almost equal to that of a dog, a trait that would have been -a tremendous advantage if he had been blessed with courage to go with -it, but which to a coward meant only realization of a thousand dangers -to make life a torment. He understood perfectly what displeasing -treatment would be his if the dogs came upon him at the killing. Not -even Broken Fang, the puma, can always protect himself against the -onslaught of the Barking One on guard over the flocks. He is fast as -lightning and as terrible as the she-wolves at the lair mouth. And -Running Feet knew quite well the deadly qualities of the glittering -stick that the herder carried in the hollow of his arm. - -To-day, however, there was only one dog, and he worked on the far side -of the flock. The herder rested under a tree; if Running Feet kept to -the shelter of the brush, there was nothing to fear from him. True, he -would be obliged to dip out into the open to seize one of the lambs, but -if fortune only permitted them to lie close enough to the edge of the -thicket, he could do it without danger. Fortune wasn’t usually good to -Running Feet; but to-day perhaps his luck had turned. And at that point -in his wolfine thoughts he made out the figure of Spot, in tireless -vigil on the highest point of the rock pile. - -It was too good to be true. The distance was full two hundred yards from -the herder; the dog was equally distant. The brush went clear to the -base of the rocks; one or two little leaps into the open would put him -within killing range. Then one or two slashing bites with his white -fangs,—and _that_ would complete a perfect afternoon. - -Running Feet looked the ground over carefully. He didn’t want to make -any avoidable mistakes. It might be that the young ram would dash down -and into the flock at the first sight of him, and although he could -overtake any domestic sheep in a short run, it might necessitate a chase -into the clearing and some danger from the herder’s rifle. The wise -course was to circle about the promontory, keeping as close as possible -to the shadow of the thicket, and advance up the trail between Spot and -his flock. - -The wind was right, the shadows were long and strange, and even Running -Feet the coward could see no chance of failure. He crept slowly from the -thicket, a gray shadow few wilderness eyes were keen enough to see. His -white fangs gleamed, the blood leaped in his veins. He made the stalk -with complete success: Hugh had not been able to tell what living form -had stirred the thicket at the base of Spot’s lookout. And then the gray -killer came bounding up the rocky trail. - -Hugh saw him then. It was only a gray glimpse: by no possible chance -could he have found a target for his rifle. The distance was far, the -coyote’s body half-obscured. He had only one thought: that Spot was -doomed beyond any power of his to save him. Already, it seemed to him, -he had developed a real affection for the self-reliant, spirited ram; -and he had a sense of acute personal loss as he read its doom. To lose -the brave leader of the flock in his first day of service! No event in -his life had ever caused more regret. - -No instruments may measure the speed of the human mind in a second of -crisis. The glimpse of the charging coyote was of infinitesimal -duration, yet Hugh had time in plenty for an overpowering wave of regret -and rage. The time he lacked, however, was that for muscular response. -There was none whatever to raise his rifle and take aim. - -And at that instant his regrets were cut short. He suddenly shouted with -delight. Spot was not to die so tamely,—in the fangs of Running Feet. -All at once the young ram snapped about in the trail, making no attempt -whatever to flee into the thickets on the other side of the rock pile. -And he lowered his head in a posture of defense. - -For long seconds he stood motionless, statuesque, his horns ready for -the coyote’s onslaught. There was something masterful, noble about the -posture, not at all to be expected in the timid and defenseless domestic -sheep. And the coyote drew up short in the trail. - -The other sheep had sprung up, by now, and were crowding away from the -rock pile: the dog sprang forward, barking, at the other side of the -flock. Hugh stood waiting for a chance to aim his weapon. And still the -tableau on the rocks remained unchanged: the young ram with lowered -head, the coyote—his blood turning to milk inside of him—on the trail. - -Hugh’s astonishment was nothing compared to the coyote’s own. He had -expected flight, panic,—anything on earth except an actual attitude of -self-defense. Just for a moment he stood motionless, snarling, trying to -find courage to attack. But not for nothing had Manitou put his curse -upon him. - -All at once it came to him that he had made a mistake. There was -something familiar about the sturdy figure, the lowered head, the -curling horns. He remembered certain passes in the High Rockies,—and -various trim, horned creatures that might occasionally be met there. -Even Broken Fang did not care to meet these people on a narrow -trail,—and Running Feet remembered with some haste that he had an -appointment on the other side of the hill. - -At that instant Hugh shot. The distance was far; the bullet whizzed hot -along Running Feet’s shoulder. He didn’t wait for a second shot. He -turned and fled at the fastest pace he knew. And with the air whizzing -past him he wholly missed the curious words that the herder -uttered,—the strange remark that he made to Spot, still standing -defiantly with lowered horns on the trail. - -“Good Lord, Spot,” he cried, “you’re not just a sheep. Sure as I live, -you’re a——” But he didn’t finish telling what Spot was. Perhaps he -didn’t know; and the ideas that were glowing dimly in his brain did not -yet take the form of a concrete thought. But more likely his attention -was merely called away. For at that instant he saw his camp-tender -advancing slowly up the trail. - - - - - CHAPTER XI - - -Hugh Gaylord had, like all men, experienced some rather violent -surprises in his time. They had been coming exceptionally thick and fast -since he had come to Smoky Land. His changed attitude toward life and -his behavior in regard to the flocks had been amazing experiences in -themselves. He had just experienced a rather violent shock on beholding -the warlike behavior of Spot. The previous night he had been through the -unusual experience of finding the body of a murdered man in a tent. But -he suddenly realized that he was facing the most amazing situation of -all. - -Death, after all, in some manner or other comes to all living creatures. -Hugh had no real reason for amazement at that still form in the herder’s -tent. He was ready to confess he didn’t know a great deal about sheep: -possibly Spot’s episode with the coyote would not have so surprised a -more experienced herder. But now he felt as if a number of his -preconceived ideas had been violently knocked out of him, and that is -always dumbfounding. His camp-tender was not a Mexican, nor yet a -laboring man of a certain type, but a girl. - -He had seen some thousands of girls in his life, yet he found himself -staring at the slim form on the horse as if he were gazing upon a -miracle of nature. Every experience of the past few days might have been -in some manner expected and he had only reacted because of qualities -within himself; his experiences with Broken Fang and the coyote were -wholly fitting in this wild, mountainous land, but he had never dreamed -but that he had left all womankind a thousand miles behind him. This was -a man’s land, not a place for the tender flesh of girls. This was the -home of savage beasts, a region of dark forests and forbidding peaks, -never a land of gentleness and ease such as women should know. He -realized with a start that evidently his good manners had been left -behind him also, for he was gazing at her in open-mouthed astonishment. - -If the girl on the horse had been an Indian squaw, even an aged and -wrinkled frontiersman’s dame, he would have felt that the axis of the -world still stood at the proper angle. But this girl was white, in spite -of her tan and the high color—not put on with a rabbit’s foot—in her -cheeks. She was young, not more than twenty-two at most. And strangest -of all she was pretty past all denial. - -Hugh felt as if there must be some mistake. Perhaps in these lonely days -in the hills he had lost the power of discrimination. He hadn’t seen a -girl for endless weeks—centuries they seemed to him—and he had heard -that such isolation affects the point of view. The girl might be white; -by a long chance she might even be young; but by no possible -circumstance had she a right to be pretty. Beauty dwelt in far cities, -in gentle lands and distant, not in these rugged mountains. Yet the -truth of his first observation became ever more apparent. - -He steadied himself, closed his mouth, and tried to stand at his ease. -The girl swung down from the horse. That motion, graceful as the leap of -a deer, explained in a measure the mystery. It revealed a suppleness, a -strength and litheness of body such as might stand the test of existence -even on the frontier. - -Hugh noted that she was a slender girl, rather tall, that she wore a -soft felt hat over her chestnut hair, and that she had dark eyes under -rather marvelous brows. Hugh was no amateur in regard to women. Now that -he had regained his self-control he made a swift and unerring appraisal; -yet found his amazement deepening at every instant. There was a -freshness, an appeal about her slight figure, suggesting perfect health -and superb physical development rather than weakness, and he was not -blind to the gentleness and breeding in her soft features. - -She seemed perfectly composed, wholly at ease. In her simplicity she -found no embarrassment under his frank gaze. “Where’s Dan?” she asked. - -Hugh straightened, somewhat startled. He had expected some sort of a -formal greeting, a few words in apology or introduction, not this -straight-out, uncompromising “Where’s Dan?” It seemed to him she acted -somewhat suspicious of him, also. - -She had, he observed, a well-bred voice. She spoke in clear, level tones -that pleased his ear. The voice was wholly lacking in affectation, but -it was simply brimming and vibrant with health and high spirits. Hugh -noticed something else, too, and smiled inwardly. He couldn’t remember -ever having been spoken to in just that way before. The level, -impersonal tone implied an insurmountable social barrier between them. -It was a somewhat similar tone, he remembered, to that in which he had -occasionally spoken to a servant. In this case he obviously was the -inferior. - -He paused and reflected as to the whereabouts of Dan. The truth came to -him in a moment. Dan of course referred to his predecessor. “He’s dead,” -Hugh answered simply. - -For the instant he was frightened. It occurred to him, when the words -had gone too far to recall, that he should have been gentler. He might -have prepared the girl, in some degree, for the shock. He didn’t want -her to faint. But if he had expected any hysteria or excitement he was -doomed to a fresh surprise. She opened her eyes; and it seemed to Hugh -that she closed her lips—in a fine, hard line—just for an instant. -“Dead?” she repeated slowly. “Killed—or did he just die?” - -“He was killed,” Hugh answered in the straightforward way of one on a -witness stand. “I found him dead in his tent. He’d been shot. The black -dog was shot too.” - -“And who are you?” - -Hugh wasn’t exactly accustomed to this straight-out sort of questioning, -but he mustered his faculties and made his answers. “Gaylord—Hugh -Gaylord,” he said simply. “And if you want me to I’ll tell you all I -know of this affair.” - -“Perhaps that would be the best plan,” she agreed. - -“I came over to the camp—to borrow something. I was with another -chap—an Indian, Pete. We found this poor beggar dead. Pete started with -him into the settlements to-day. It’s a wonder you didn’t meet him on -the trail.” - -“He probably took the other fork, heading toward Seven Mile. I came up -from Horse Creek.” - -As Hugh didn’t know the two places apart, or what they represented, this -information did not clear matters up for him to any great extent. “He -left me here,” Hugh went on, “and as I didn’t have anything in -particular to do—I took care of the sheep—until you could hire a -regular herder.” - -The girl looked puzzled but made no immediate reply. “And you’re not an -experienced herder?” - -“No. I’ve never worked—I’ve never worked at it before.” - -“Then how did you know what to do?” - -“I didn’t know. I let ’em do what they wanted to, and followed along.” - -Then the girl laughed,—for the first time. It was a tinkling, musical -sound, inexpressibly girlish, and Hugh laughed boyishly himself. It was -their first real moment of understanding; and it seemed to Hugh that a -new impulse, a curious sense of impending events, a new stir and -vitality had been born in the air. He might have wondered at the -freshness and happiness in his own laugh, as much as in hers. It was an -hour of miracles. - -“You couldn’t have done better—and I needn’t tell you that you’ve -probably saved me—and my father—hundreds of dollars. The coyotes and -the wolves would have been busy all night and to-day. I’d be glad enough -to pay you well for this time you’ve spent—and give you a steady job if -you want it.” - -She spoke perfectly naturally, and Hugh knew that his torn and soiled -clothes and his unshaven face had done their work. Obviously she never -guessed his true position. He wondered how she explained his presence in -the hills and his reasons for staying with the sheep. - -She did have her own theories, but they were far indeed from the truth. -Her mind leaped at once to what seemed to her the most plausible -explanation,—that Hugh was a humble white man, friend of Pete’s, -possibly a laborer out of work, or a hungry wanderer from the East. He -had taken the herder’s place in hopes of securing a permanent position -when the camp-tender returned. - -“Before I decide to stay,” Hugh replied steadily, “I’d like to know a -few things.” - -“We’ll pay you two dollars a day—and furnish you with supplies,” she -assured him soberly. - -Hugh did not smile. After all, the wage was an important consideration. -The girl was evidently a partner with her father in this sheep-raising -venture, and possibly for the sake of economy but probably because of -the acute shortage of labor (Hugh had not forgotten the Indian’s words) -had worked as camp-tender herself. Her perfect health, her strong, lithe -body, a skill with horses and a wholesome scarcity of nonsense in her -disposition had enabled her to fill the position well and in all -probability to enjoy it. - -Hugh studied her face with growing interest. In his sphere of life girls -did not drive trains of pack horses into the rugged hills, do a man’s -work in the open, have dealings with uneducated herders, and still laugh -like silver bells. - -She wore, he noticed, a rather heavy revolver slung at her hip. Her hand -was small and shapely, but it was also brown and firm. They would make, -Hugh thought, a rather dangerous combination. The eyes, wide apart and -bright, looked unusually healthy and clear, and Hugh imagined that they -could see quite straight over revolver sights. The man understood why -she had been able to ply her occupation in safety. Woe to the herder -that would presume upon their isolation! - -“Labor is scarce, I suppose?” Hugh asked. What he was really trying to -find out was how long this position of sheep herder would be thrust upon -him. He had yielded himself to enough folly for one day, and he had no -intention of committing himself to a position as sheep herder for the -rest of his natural life. As soon as they could find a substitute,—but -Hugh didn’t finish the sentence. He suddenly realized that thence on he -had no plans. - -The girl looked up, rather sober of face. “_Good_ labor is very scarce,” -she agreed honestly. “But we can’t pay more than two dollars a day. You -see—you’re inexperienced.” - -Secretly he thought that she was _bluffing_, that she would pay a much -higher price to retain him as shepherd of the flock. But he didn’t voice -the thought. “Two dollars a day is all right,” he said. “That wasn’t -what I was going to ask you. There’s some other things I want to -know—that I feel I have a right to know. That man was murdered, and the -guide thought it was because of a fight between the sheepmen and -cattlemen. I don’t care to have some one come up here and find me -murdered, too.” - -The girl seemed distressed. It was the first time since their meeting -that she seemed to lack words. Then she looked up fearlessly. - -“I wish I could tell you differently,” she said. “A sheep woman has no -right to be honest, in these days. The Indian told you the truth. Dan -was murdered, not for personal reasons, but because the cattlemen—a -little, evil group of them—want to destroy this flock of sheep—just -why I’ll tell you later. And that’s the chance you must take.” - -“It’s a real chance?” - -Again she flinched. “They seem to be willing to go to any lengths to -beat us.” - -“But it’s a chance worth taking,” he said with a sudden lightness of -heart. “I’ll keep the job for a while at least.” - -He watched her face as he spoke, and he saw the light—as unmistakable -as the dawn that he had seen come over the mountains—grow in her face. -It was reward enough. The joy that he got out of the work itself was -henceforth simply clear profit; for another motive—one that had just -come into his life—justified beyond all question the expenditure of his -time and the chance of death. - -He didn’t try to explain the matter to his own satisfaction. He only -knew that he felt a great and resistless desire to help this straight -young mountain girl in her venture, to take sides with her against the -monstrous odds that opposed her. He had committed himself: he noticed -with an inward laugh that the girl had not promised even to attempt to -get another herder to take his place. And he felt vaguely and secretly -glad. - -The two of them started to drive the white flocks back to the camp. - - - - - CHAPTER XII - - -As the stars emerged and the little mountain wind sprang up and crept -forth in its never-ending explorations of the thickets, the shepherdess -explained all things to Hugh’s satisfaction. But first there was supper: -a meal the like of which he had never tasted before. - -The girl cooked it. Hugh watched her, her swift, graceful motions, the -ease and strength with which she went about her tasks, and he found an -unlooked-for delight in the sight. She had brought fresh stores; and the -meal—from Hugh’s suddenly rejuvenated point of view—was more nearly a -banquet. Were there not new potatoes, roasted in the ashes, flapjacks -with syrup, a fresh, white-breasted grouse that she had beheaded with -her pistol on the way out, and for dessert dried apples stewed to a -succulency and tenderness that passed all description? Hugh had eaten -some thousands of meals in his time. He had dined in the most famous -cafés and restaurants of Europe, he had been at pretentious dinner -parties. Yet he couldn’t remember ever experiencing the simple and -healthy zest for food, the sheer delight of eating, the amazing appetite -that had come upon him now. No meal in his whole life had ever tasted so -good or satisfied him more. - -In the first place he had done a man’s work. For the first time in -recent years his body actually demanded food: plenty of it and soon, for -he had missed his lunch; besides, he had that inner peace and -satisfaction of a day’s work completed. Then its very preparation made -it appetizing,—the slim, sure hands of the girl, her brown arms -flashing, the fragrant wood smoke, the long, impressive vista of the -Rockies behind the camp. - -After supper he helped her wash the camp dishes; then cut fir boughs for -her bed that was to be situated nearly a quarter of a mile away, across -the meadow. The idea of being afraid of him seemingly didn’t even occur -to her. She would have slept out the same way had he been from any other -class of men, and Hugh could understand how his predecessors had -respected her heavy revolver. Then there was a quiet hour with his -new-found friend, his pipe,—and the girl telling her story in the -fire’s glow. - -“My father’s name is Crowson—Ezra Crowson,” she began in the direct -mountain way. “And mine—out here we don’t bother with last names—is -Alice Crowson. You don’t have to call me Miss, Mr. Gaylord——” - -“And by the same token,” he replied, “my first name is Hugh.” - -“Then Hugh——” - -“Then Alice——” And they laughed across the fire. It had become quite -easy to laugh at simple, wholesome pleasantries. Yet there was no -familiarity here. Alice had told the truth: last names take time; and -time, in the West, is precious. Names were designations of people, -rather than people the representatives of names. Names didn’t matter and -people did. - -“Dan called me Alice too,” she went on, suddenly remembering to remind -Hugh that he was in the same class, as far as privileges went, with his -predecessors. “My father lives down at a place called Horse Creek—and -unlike many sheepmen in the West, his whole capital is tied up in this -one flock. He isn’t a big sheepman—only a little one. That is what -makes it so important that we win. - -“He bought the stock from an old friend to whom he had loaned everything -he had—and it was either take the sheep or lose everything. He wasn’t -an experienced sheepman. Otherwise he wouldn’t have come here—where -Landy Fargo and his gang control everything. You see, Hugh, they are -cattlemen—managers—and they’re part owners, too—for a number of rich -men in the East. For years and years they’ve had everything their own -way in regard to the range. - -“Maybe, if you’re an Eastern man, you don’t understand about range. The -Western stock business depends on having acres and acres of open land -for the stock to run in through spring, summer, and fall, feeding them -just in winter. The land is either privately owned, public domain, -school lands or government national forest: in this case it is—except -for this big track we have been using—public domain. Of course the -sheepmen had just as much right to it as the cattlemen, but because they -wanted to keep all the range for themselves, they’ve driven off every -man who tried to run sheep in Smoky Land. - -“Oh, it was easy to do. Sometimes they did it just by threatening, -sometimes by poisoning the stock, and _sometimes_——” - -Hugh leaned forward. “By killing the herders?” - -“Yes.” The girl’s lips set tight. “I didn’t know they would go that far, -but Fargo’s got a new right-hand man now—a Mexican named José. He’s -used to killing—he learned it in the South—and I haven’t a bit of -doubt but that he shot Dan last night. Perhaps they’ve killed before, -but before it was always open warfare, at least. They’ve always won—and -for all I see they’ll win now. - -“You see, as far as public domain is concerned, they’ve got a certain -right to oppose the sheepmen. They were the first here, and cattle won’t -feed after sheep. But in this case there’s a wide track—almost a whole -township—through the center of Smoky Land that isn’t public domain but -belongs to an old woman down at Boise. It is the best sheep range in the -State, and father found out that the cattlemen weren’t renting it. The -old woman had tried to rent it to them, but they wouldn’t take it. We -found out why, later. They were using it without paying for it—and they -thought that giving any money to this helpless old woman was just -throwing it away. Incidentally it was all she had, and because there are -no mills here, it is practically valueless except for range. - -“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 to-day 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 to-day?” - -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 mature—father let him run with the flock. None of us know -what to make of him.” - -They got up, built the fire high so that its glow went out over the -flock, and tried to get another glimpse of him. They found him easily -enough, at the very foremost of the band, his brown color in vivid -contrast to the whiteness of the ewes. And in finding him Alice made -another, less pleasing discovery. - -Hugh didn’t understand at first. He saw that she was making some kind of -a count, first leisurely, then in frantic haste. A troubled look came -into her fresh face. Once more she verified the count, then turned to -him with a rueful smile. - -“My day’s work is not yet over,” she said slowly. - -“Why not?” he demanded. - -“One of the markers—one of sixteen black ewes—is missing. Do you know -what that means?” - -“Good Heavens—that you’ve got to go out—in this dark forest—to look -for him?” - -“The ninety and nine,” she quoted, still with the same, inscrutable -smile. “But it isn’t just one, Hugh. You see, sheep keep relatively the -same position in the flock. Of course it might be just a single -disaster—a coyote snatching her from the flanks—but ordinarily when -one of the black sheep is gone, it means that a hundred or so others -have gone with her. I can’t take the chance.” - -His own face grew mournful. “You see—what a good herder I am. Lose a -hundred sheep the first day.” - -“It happens to the best of herders.” - -“Then why can’t I go out to look for them—and let you stay here? That’s -what I’m going to do.” - -“No. You must stay here. You don’t know sheep yet, Hugh, and likely you -don’t know these mountains. The band of them is somewhere through the -stretch you fed over to-day—and I would know just how and where to look -for them. At night with no dog—the dog must stay here with you—you -wouldn’t be able to drive them. I even have to go on foot, so I can -climb down into the steep canyons and go through the brush. It’s part of -the life of the camp-tender.” - -“But you won’t go—in this darkness——” - -“I’ll wait till the moon rises. Besides, I know this Smoky Land from end -to end. So don’t be afraid for me.” - -They stood silent by the leaping flame. The sheep lay quiet, the -shepherd dog slept at Hugh’s feet. And subtly stealing into their -consciousness above the sound of the leaping flame they heard the voice -of the forest, mysterious and profound,—the little sounds of the wind -in the thicket, the rustling of leaves, the hushed footfall of the wild -creatures. Into that darkness Alice would venture for her lost sheep. -Hugh felt a strange weight of dread. - -Above the far mountains the clouds gleamed with the first beams of the -rising moon. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII - - -In that momentous twilight that brought Hugh Gaylord to the sheep camp -for the first time, there was unfamiliar traffic on the brown, -pine-needle trail that wound down to the meadows from the darkening -forest. There was the sound of a footfall not often heard. And one can -imagine the lesser forest people—the little gnawing folk that have -underground lairs and to whom the ferns are a beautiful, tropical -forest—gazing up with bright eyes to see who came. - -Perhaps at first they thought it was merely one of the hunters: a great -creature of claw or fang such as a wolf or cougar. This was the hour -when the beasts of prey started forth to hunt, and it was true that the -step had a stealthy, hushed quality of one who does not care to have his -presence known. It can be understood why a little gopher, so fat of -cheeks that he gave the impression of being afflicted with mumps, lay -rather close and still among his tree roots until the creature got past. -He didn’t care to feel a puma claw impaling him as a fishhook impales a -worm. - -The gopher has not particularly acute vision, so this traveler on the -pine-needle trail was to remain ever a mystery to him. He was aware of a -tall, dark form that glided softly and departed; and life became the -same puzzling grayness that it had been before. A chipmunk, -however—like a little patch of light and shadow against a brown tree -trunk—could see much better. And he lay very still, only his eyes busy, -until he found out the truth. - -The passer-by was only a man, after all, such a creature as usually did -not take the trouble to hunt chipmunks. Still he felt afraid, and it is -extremely doubtful that the small-sized, always addled brain in his -miniature skull could tell him why. The truth was that in that stealing -figure there was something terribly suggestive of the beasts of prey -themselves, creatures that—more than often—did devote unwelcome -attentions to chipmunks. The man crept through the forest with the same -caution. His eyes were strange and glowing like those of the lynx as it -climbs through the branches. And over him—an aura too dim and obscure -for the blunt senses of human beings—hung an essence with which the -wilderness creatures are only too familiar: that ancient lust and fever -that comes to Broken Fang when he strikes down his prey. - -He was shivering all over; and it was to be remembered that the wolf—in -certain dread moments at the end of the chase—shivered the same way. -One would have been given cause to wonder what stress, what dreadful -events had occurred beyond the edge of the meadow that had caused this -queer inebriation. - -But as strong drink dies in the body, the fever seemed to fall away from -him as he made turn after turn in the trail. He stooped now, rather than -crouched, his footfall had a fumbling, heavy, dragging quality that was -not at all like the stealth it had possessed at first. The surface -lights passed from his dark eyes, leaving them somewhat languorous and -lifeless. The lines of his face were of inordinate fatigue; he no longer -trembled in excitement, and for all the heat of the July night he felt -cold. - -José Mertos was no stranger to the blood-madness. It had been upon him -plenty of times in his own land, and he had shivered and exulted with it -beneath far southern stars. Yet it never grew old to him. Its rapture -seemed ever greater. But unfortunately, when it died, it left -disquieting pictures in his brain. They always took the fine edge from -his satisfaction after a particularly skilful affair such as this had -been. He was a tried hand in such work, innured to wickedness, yet he -still retained the same troublesome tendency toward after-images that -had spoiled his sleep, one night and another, in the past. - -At present he couldn’t forget the ludicrous look of bewilderment with -which Dan the herder had received the rifle shot. It was only a thing to -laugh at, to tell as a good joke when he sat with his employer, yet he -found no pleasure in thinking of it now. The herder had simply looked -amazed,—not afraid, not awed by the Gates of Darkness that had rushed -up to him, nothing at all but deeply bewildered and unbelieving. He -hadn’t seemed to realize that José had shot him, that even as the blank -expression of astonishment had come upon his face the lead ball had -forced a passage through his breast. Perhaps he died too quickly for any -sort of realization. And José could not forget the queer swaying and -staggering with which he fell back upon his tree-bough pallet,—just as -if he were drunk and falling into bed. - -The pictures came in a series, one after another. First this falling, -then the glimpse of the still form on the fir boughs. The black shepherd -dog had come bounding toward him, and José had drawn his pistol for this -work. It was just as good at close range. And he remembered with amazing -clearness how the light had died, slowly and unmistakably, in the dog’s -eyes. He had watched the sheep for the last time. - -Even now José didn’t understand how he had missed the other, larger -shepherd dog. He had shot, the animal had rocked down, he had looked -back once to the dead herder in the tent (perhaps to see how _he_ was -taking this slaughter of his pets) and when he had turned his eyes -again, the animal had risen and was fleeing from him about the flank of -the flock. The cur was wounded, anyway: perhaps the injury was severe -enough to end his life before the morning. His watch of the sheep was -surely done. And Landy Fargo—the man who even now waited for his -report—would find the whole matter to his satisfaction. - -A few minutes later José came to the thicket where he had left his -horse; then he headed on down the trail. Through the night hours he -rode. Not in one chance out of a thousand would the murder be discovered -before Alice Crowson returned, three days later, but he didn’t care to -take that thousandth chance. It might be embarrassing—considering his -past record—to explain his presence near the murder. “If you can’t buy -him over and things _do_ get to the shooting stage,” Landy Fargo had -said, “no one will find the stiff for three days. You’ll be miles away -by then, the flock’ll be torn to pieces, and we’ll be settin’ pretty. -It’s the safest deal you were ever in.” - -The destruction of the flock, José considered, was not his business. His -work was done and the sooner he got out of the immediate vicinity the -better it would be for him. He spurred the horse into a slow, easy -gallop. - -The moon came up, falling dimly upon his burnished skin. It would be no -longer possible to mistake his race. He was even darker than Pete, the -Indian, his eyes were like jet, his lips were thin and dark and cruel. -But he rode well. He seemed to hang almost limp in the saddle, utterly -without effort, and the long miles sped beneath him. - -But the night was almost done when he came to Landy Fargo’s house on the -lower waters of Silver Creek. Fargo himself was dozing in a great chair -in his stuffy living room, waiting for his envoy to return. - -There were several noticeable features about this room. The principal -one was its dirt. The floors were stained, the carpets soiled, the -corners cluttered with rubbish of all kinds; the window glass was so -spotted that it did not let the moonlight in, and the soft light -lingered—like an unwelcome ghost—against the windowpane. The effect -that wise interior decorators try to obtain in furnishing—that in which -the pieces, not holding the eye in themselves, give an atmosphere, a -sense of unity—was quite lacking here. The mantel was clustered with -gaudy ornaments, the chairs were tawdry, cheap pictures covered the -walls. But yet the room reflected the individuality of the man in the -chair. He was just as cheaply gaudy, just as unclean as the room itself. - -He got up, and it was to be seen that he had a rather formidable -physique. He had imposing muscles, stocky legs, and it was wholly -possible that before prosperity had come upon him he had been an agile, -muscular cattleman. But the gaze left his heavy frame and was held by -the unmistakable brutality of his face. There was none of the fine-edged -cruelty—that with which a puma pats and plays his prey to death—that -was to be seen in the swarthy face of José. He was blunt, dull; his -savagery was that of the bulldog,—heavy lips closed over strong teeth, -little lurid eyes looking out from under heavy brows. - -José rolled a cigarette, lighted it, drew its smoke into his vitals, -then lolled in one of the chairs. Fargo watched him with hard eyes, not -a little admiring. Most of his understrappers did not come into his -presence with this same ease and self-possession. He was used to seeing -men cower before him. He had learned to look for a certain cringing and -servility, and many a time when it was lacking he forced it with his -heavy, flailing fists. But José was different. It might not be healthy -to strike José. They met eyes to eyes. - -“Well?” Fargo demanded. - -He was somewhat anxious about the verdict. This had been no child’s -play,—what José had been sent to do. It was really a new departure for -the little clique that he headed. There had been deaths before, open -riding and fast shooting, but deliberate and premeditated killing had -never been necessary. Slumber hadn’t come easily to him to-night. And -now he didn’t like to be kept waiting. - -“Well, what?” José answered. “You mean—what luck?” - -“That’s it.” Fargo uttered a short syllable of a laugh. “What luck?” - -“I said I’d do it, didn’t I, if he didn’t come around? Well, I’ve done -it. There’s nobody watchin’ them sheep to-night.” And thus it was to be -seen that José had lived long enough among Americans to acquire the -vernacular. Only a hint of the Latin, a softening of consonants, -remained in his tone. - -Fargo uttered a short sigh of relief. “Clean job, eh?” - -“All except the big dog. Killed the black one. Wounded the -shepherd—think he’ll kick in before morning.” - -Fargo leaned back in his chair. “Then there’s nothin’ to it. I guess -that’ll show ’em, eh, José?” He fell to boasting. “I guess that makes it -plain that when I say get out, I mean get out. You know I told that -devil this was his last warning—told him myself what would happen to -him if he didn’t switch over to us—and I guess he got what he wanted. -But I’m sorry you missed the dog. He might keep away a lot of cats and -coyotes that would otherwise be busy for the next few days.” - -“He’s wounded—don’t think he can.” José breathed an oath in his own -tongue. “But I don’t see what it’s all about. Crowson had that tract -rented——” - -“You don’t, eh?” Fargo stiffened. “I don’t know it’s necessary that you -see what it’s all about. That happens to be my business—and don’t go -making any mistake about that. But I’ll explain it a little better. I’ve -been told—by the men that own the herds with me—to keep out sheepmen -at all cost. That one piece of range that Crowson rented has been worth -ten thousand a year to us. Do you think we’re goin’ to let that slip out -of our hands for a bunch of measly sheep?” - -“But why didn’t you have enough sense to rent that tract yourself?” - -“Because we’re trying to make a clean-up out of this deal, that’s why. -Who’d ever dream that old hag would ever find a renter—and as long as -we were gettin’ it free, what was the use? We’ve been here a long -time—if this flock prospered there’d be more of ’em come in—and -where’d be our monopoly of the range then? You know that our policy has -always been to squeeze out the little fellow—cattle as well as sheep. -We’ve got to set an example with this flock of Crowson’s—and to have -’em all get killed—in a few days—or even part of ’em, is going to -discourage any more sheepmen coming into a cattle country. You don’t -know cattlemen, José, or you wouldn’t question. Just the same—the job’s -only half done. A shepherd dog, wounded or not, ’ll stay to fight to the -last inch of hair on his body, especially that big devil of Crowson’s. -And he sure can bluff out the coyotes.” - -José discarded his cigarette, and lit a fresh one. “Well, say what’s to -be done,” he said. “I’m not goin’ back after that other dog.” - -“I’m not tellin’ you to, either. Your job is to stay away from there.” -Fargo suddenly leaned forward, his eyes burning. “You know what I’d like -to see?” he whispered. “I’d like to have that Crowson girl ride up there -in a day or two and find every one of those damned woollies—every one, -not three or four hundred of ’em—dead and rotting in the grass. Then -people’d know this was a cattle country. Since we’ve gone as far as we -have, the thing to do is to go all the way. And we might work it yet.” - -José’s face showed that he was interested. “Poison?” he asked. - -“You can’t never tell about poison. Sheep are queer critters. When -they’re well fed they’ll shy of anything that tastes queer. Think -again——” - -“The only other way’s rifles—and that would take a carload of shells. -But I tell you—the coyotes will slash a lot of ’em and run the rest to -death.” - -“Maybe—and maybe not. A coyote don’t run sheep. They kill all they can, -and then start to eatin’. Of course there’s exceptions. It takes a dog -to slash a hundred of ’em in one night—and run the rest——” - -And at that instant his words were drowned out. A strange, formidable -cry reached them from behind the house: a long, far-carrying chorus of -savage voices. It rang shockingly loud in the silent darkness. It was a -symphony of prolonged, deep bays,—a sound as terrifying and menacing as -any voice of the wilderness. And an evil glitter came into Fargo’s eyes. - -The explosion of sound, blaring out so suddenly in the stillness, had -startled José; but he caught himself at once. The cry ceased, the -stillness fell again. “Your pack of bear dogs!” he exclaimed. - -“Yes. It was as if they heard us talkin’ about sheep. It’s like they was -tryin’ to tell us what to do.” - -It was true. It might have been the voice of an evil genius, prompting -their vicious designs. Fargo was a superstitious man, and now he was -tingling all over with hatred and malice, inspired to the depths of his -wicked being by the cry in the darkness. - -“Yes,” he whispered. “My pack of bear dogs—ten of ’em, savage as -wolves—and not to be afraid of no wounded shepherd dog, and tearin’ to -pieces any one that tries to stop ’em. They’ve told us how to solve our -problem. And I don’t see why I didn’t think of ’em before.” - - - - - CHAPTER XIV - - -It didn’t take Fargo long to perfect his plans. As the dawn emerged he -talked them over with the Mexican, José, and the latter was ready with -any little suggestions that did not occur to his chief. And the gray, -soft, mysterious light of early morning came into that -conference—through the stained and cobwebbed windowpane—and found a -darkness it could not alleviate. - -As they talked, the very atmosphere of the room seemed to change. It was -tense, poignant as if with the remembered lusts and passions of an -earlier, more savage world. The little sounds of a room in which two men -talk together—the stir of moving bodies, the creak of furniture, the -soft whisper of easy breathing seemed lacking here. Both were motionless -as two serpents that lay in their sunbaths on their ledges, and thus an -insidious stillness dropped down in the little intervals between their -sentences. - -The almost total absence of motion on the part of those two conspirators -could not have been ignored. It implied only one thing: that their -thoughts were so commanding and engrossing that even the almost -unconscious movements of the body were suspended. What motion there was, -was mostly only the deepening of the lines on their dark faces. - -This tenseness, this silence, these submerged passions pointed to but -one end. And the crime would not be outside the pale of the laws of man -alone, but the basic laws of the forest as well. The feast of death was -to take place after all,—the same delight of which Broken Fang, the -puma, was even then dreaming beside the sheep camp on the far headwaters -of Silver Creek. But men, not wild beasts, were to be the debauchers. - -“It’s the simplest way yet,” Fargo had whispered. The veins stood out in -his brutal hands. “That pack of mine are devils—there’s no other word -for ’em—and once they get goin’, they’d sweep through that flock of -woollies like lightning. You’ve heard of sheep-killin’ dogs before——” - -“Yes—but your dogs ain’t never been sheep killers,” the Mexican -protested. - -“What of that? They can learn fast enough. They’d tear a man to pieces -just as quick if I didn’t keep ’em chained. I don’t see why I didn’t -teach ’em long ago—they’d be worth a thousand coyotes for keepin’ this -country clear of sheep. Maybe you don’t know about sheep-killing dogs. -You might not have heard that in the sheep country in the East one dog -that once got the habit will spoil the business for miles around. You -see, José, most animals don’t kill more than they need; it’s an instinct -with ’em, for if they did they’d pay for it by going hungry later. -Nature has a way of teachin’ the wild varmints what to do. But dogs have -been domesticated so long that they’ve forgotten most of their -instincts, and once they get started, once the killin’ fever gets a hold -of ’em, they don’t know when to quit. There’s many a dog that has -slashed a hundred sheep in one night—jumpin’ from one to another, -tearing out one throat after another, and runnin’ the rest till they -die. It’s kind of a madness that gets a hold of ’em once they get -started. True, my dogs ain’t ever got the habit, but one taste will -teach ’em. And they’re half-wild already, as any man well knows who seen -’em tear that little black cub-bear to pieces last week. Just tore him -to little scraps of black fur.” - -Fargo leaned back in his chair and laughed. The sound burst out suddenly -above the even murmur of his talk, and it was no less terrible to hear -than the bay of the pack a few minutes before. It was a wild, harsh -sound,—and African travelers might have been given cause to remember -the hyenas, laughing on the sun-baked hills. It pleased him to recall -that scene in the forest beyond the creek, in which his pack of dogs had -killed the cub. It moved him in unlovely, dark ways. The little bear had -been a clumsy, furry, amiable little creature—representing what is -perhaps the most lovable breed of all the wild animals—and the pack had -made short and terrible work of him. - -“There’s ten of ’em,” Fargo went on, “and there ain’t no one to guard -the flock. That one big shepherd dog would last quick—he wouldn’t be -able to bluff off them hounds of mine like he could bluff coyotes. And -then they’d have the time of their lives—the time of their lives.” - -“You mean—take ’em and sick ’em on?” José asked. - -“I’ve got a better way than that. Of course one of us will have to take -’em and show ’em the way until they get on the track of the flock, and -of course that one will have to be me. I’m the only living man that can -handle ’em—you remember the night that old Ben got out and how he -pretty near killed that little cowman from Naptha. There’s a little -medicine I’ve got to give ’em before I go, and that means—for you to -take a little ride over to Newt Hillguard’s.” - -José half-closed his eyes. He had begun to understand. - -“I’ve always cussed at Newt for keepin’ that little band of Shropshires -in his back lot, but I’m glad now he didn’t get rid of them,” Fargo went -on. “You’re to bring back a sheep in your saddle—a lamb ’ll do, or any -old ewe he was about to slaughter. Then, after we get through here, all -I’ll have to do is start up the old Horse Creek trail with that pack of -dogs. It’ll be a couple of hours before I can get started, and it’ll -take till dark to get to the sheep camp, but dark’s the best time for a -sheep-killin’ dog to work, anyhow. The sheep are bunched together, and -it doesn’t take so much runnin’. And I got to be on hand to call ’em -back and round ’em up when they’re done.” - -The face of the Mexican was suddenly crafty. “I suppose wantin’ to see -the fun hasn’t anything to do with your goin’?” he suggested. - -Fargo laughed again. “I’m not sayin’ it won’t be worth watching,” he -agreed. “But you know I can always round ’em up with my whistle. -José—to-night will see the end of the sheep business for time to come.” - -They went about their preparations. They ate their breakfast in the -unsavory kitchen, then José rode off to the ranch where Newt Hillguard -kept his little flock of thirty Shropshires. There was no particular -good in making full explanation to Newt. He was a cattleman surely, his -little flock was just a diversion with him, but he might not take fondly -to any plan that would make sheep killers out of Fargo’s pack of dogs. -Some night they might escape from their yard and visit his own little -flock. “The boys say they’re tired of beef and want a mutton blow-out,” -José explained, “and I’m sent over here to supply it. Will you sell me -one of them sheep of yours?” - -“Seems funny to me,” Newt returned, “that gang of Fargo’s wantin’ -mutton. But I suppose I can sell you one.” - -“Any old ewe’ll do,” José went on. “We don’t want ’em to like it so well -they’ll want it often. The one you can sell me cheapest. We’ll want it -alive, too, ’cause we ain’t goin’ to have him for a day or two. And once -I’ve got to pack him on the horse, maybe I’d better take a lamb.” - -The money changed hands, Newt gave in exchange a few pounds of living -flesh that blatted feebly and struggled in José’s arms—with a strange, -frantic terror—as if in premonition of its doom. The lips of the man -set in a straight, cruel line, and he rode with an unjustified swiftness -back to Fargo’s house. - -There was only one element of mercy in the unmentionable scene that -followed in the little, tightly fenced enclosure behind Fargo’s house. -None whatever dwelt in the drawn faces of the men, or in the savage, -white-fanged creatures that leaped so fiercely at the picket fence as -the men approached. But the time, at least, was swift. It went almost -too fast for Fargo’s liking. - -There was only a single second of strange and dreadful clamor within the -enclosure, a glimpse of white in the ravening circle of browns and -blacks, a smear of red and a faint cry that the men strained to hear but -which was lost in the baying of the dogs. The pack had been given its -lesson. Fargo foresaw in their glaring eyes—as they came rushing back -to the palings again—the success of his plan. - -“Get inside the house and shut the door,” he commanded. “I can’t answer -for this blood-thirsty crowd. And do it quick.” - -For Fargo knew that the sooner he got started the more successful would -be his undertaking. He didn’t want their wild excitement to have a -chance to die down. The great hounds saw his gun in his arms, a pungent -stain of red was still upon their fangs, and they seemed to know that -rapturous events were in store for them. The Mexican withdrew, Fargo -unlatched the gate of the enclosure, and the animals leaped forth around -him. In a moment he had swung on his horse; and followed by the crying -pack galloped up the trail. - -He rather hoped he would meet no pedestrian on the trail. He had never -seen his dogs in such a savage mood, and he began to doubt his own -ability to control them. There could be no doubt about the effectiveness -of the medicine he had administered. The hunting lust was upon them as -never before. And perhaps his eager spirit, his own madness went into -them, and excited them all the more. - -It was a long, hard ride before he came to that pine-clad heart of Smoky -Land which Crowson had rented for a sheep range. He had been able to -lope only a small part of the way: the trails were too narrow and steep. -The dogs ran more silently now; yet with noticeable eagerness. During -the long, still afternoon they were grimly patient, and they skulked -like wolfine ghosts through the growing shadows of the twilight. - -But their excitement began to return to them as the dark came down. It -was the hunting hour: everywhere through the forests the beasts of prey -were emerging from their lairs. The hounds were domestic animals, but -some of the old wilderness madness revived when the wind came whispering -its breathless messages through the trees. Their blood seemed to turn to -fire. Time and time again Fargo had to utter the shrill whistle that -called them to heel,—a signal that he had laboriously taught them and -which they now seemed to be forgetting. - -Fargo knew these mountains end to end, and he did not often mistake the -trails. But soon after nightfall the conviction grew upon him that he -was taking much too long to reach the sheep camp. Besides, the mountains -didn’t lie in just their proper places. The tall top of Grizzly Peak was -too far to the right to suit him. He knew perfectly that he was within a -very few miles of the camp, yet he chafed under the delay. And the -darkness steadily deepened, dimming the landmarks by which he kept his -directions. - -He headed on, at first irritated, then apprehensive, finally wrathful -and savage. He began to fear that possibly he would have to wait until -dawn for the work. The dogs, however, were growing constantly more -excited and harder to control. - -The last grayness faded into the gloom, and Fargo could hardly see the -trail. But he was a mountain man, and he knew what to do. In the last -dim glimpses of late twilight the peaks had begun to wheel around where -he wanted them to be, and he knew that the camp was now only three or -four miles distant at most. And the proper course was to sit down, rest, -and wait for the moon to rise. Then he could locate his landmarks, start -down the ridge to the river, then up its banks to the camp. - -He thought that as far as human beings went, he had the mountains all to -himself. He supposed that in the camp—now certainly nearing—a dead -herder lay face buried in his tree-bough pallet; but Fargo was not the -kind of man to whom such a fact as this preys on the mind. He did not -dream that the body had already been found, that the herd was guarded, -and that even now the daughter of his enemy was waiting for this same -moon,—to start forth to find the missing members of the flock. - -Fargo watched the silver glint in the sky; he saw the white disk roll -forth. The light grew, it leaped down between the trees, it worked -nebulous magic on the floor of the forest, it enchanted the whole -wilderness world. He located his peaks. And all at once he knew his -exact position,—scarcely three miles from the camp and squarely across -the ridge. - -He got up and started on with the great hounds. At first they were -curiously silent and alert. They did not frisk and run as in the first -hour on the trail, and to a casual eye their excitement had died within -them. For the moment they seemed perfectly under control. Yet Fargo -watched them, wondering. They were moving with a peculiar stealth, and -once the man caught the unmistakable glare of their yellow-green wolfine -eyes in the moonlight. - -At that instant Ben, the old pack leader, spoke in the silence. It was a -sharp bay, and momentarily every dog stood lifeless. And then with a -wild cry they darted into the shadows. - -Fargo whistled frantically, but the pack didn’t seem to hear. Their loud -and savage bays obscured all sound. Oaths fell from the man’s -lips—sounds scarcely less savage than the bay of the dogs -themselves—and at first he could see nothing but failure for his -scheme. - -It might be, however, that they were right and he was wrong. The dogs -were not heading toward the sheep camp. But it was wholly possible that -the flock had fed out far that day, had found another drinking place, -and thus had not returned to the vicinity of Silver Creek; and the -hounds were already on their trail. This theory had to include the death -of the wounded shepherd dog, for the first instinct of the animal likely -would have been to keep the flock near the tent of his dead master. - -His own course was clear. He would cross the ridge to the camp, try to -locate the flock, and then attempt to collect his hounds and bring them -to it. He believed that if they were on a false scent they would return -to him soon. - -But the moon looked down and saw that their instincts had told them -true. They had crossed the tracks that the flock had made on the outward -feeding from the camp that day: they had only to follow it, circle about -where Spot, the flock leader, had led, and find the sheep where they had -bedded down at night. Yet they seemed to know that certain sport was in -store for them before ever they made the long loop around to the sheep -camp. For somewhere between was huddled a little group of a hundred -stragglers,—the band that Hugh had lost during the day’s grazing and -which even now Alice had gone forth to find. - - - - - CHAPTER XV - - -Like a song soaring over the camp fire, clear and wonderfully sweet in -the hushed and tremulous darkness, Alice’s laugh had been her only -good-by to Hugh. He hadn’t approved of this night journey after the lost -sheep. He was new to the mountains, yet he had sensed a vague and -whispered menace in the dark forest into which the trail would lead her. -He had protested to the last instant; he wanted to go himself, and he -had felt a weight of apprehension and concern that she could not explain -away. The very breathlessness in the air was in some way sinister; the -light patches of moonlight in the big timber only accentuated its -mystery, only darkened—by light of contrast—the gloom of the thickets. -Yet her only answer had been a laugh. - -It was true that the laugh was not really one of mirth. She felt no -fear, but she was not amused at his. Rather she had laughed in simple -and undeniable joy, and she didn’t quite know its source. It was a -little gratifying that this bronzed, well-bred man should be anxious -about her. It touched her more than she was ready to admit, even to -herself. Yet she really thought that his concern was unjustified. - -She knew these mountains. She felt that in some measure at least she had -mastered them. She could shoot straight with her pistol: if indeed -Broken Fang—the great cougar that had begun to display a rather -disquieting arrogance in the presence of men—should find and follow her -trail, she had full confidence that the fire from her six pistol -cartridges would frighten him away. She had lived long enough in the -mountains to know that rare and few are the wild animals that will even -menace human beings. The coyotes were abject cowards, the ordinary run -of cougars—although sometimes given to trailing a night wanderer for -long and unpleasant hours on the mountain trails—always seemed to lack -courage to attack, and the wolves would not have their pack strength -until the winter. The wolf pack in the snow, she knew perfectly, was not -a thing to trifle with. But the gray creatures were living singly now, -or in pairs, and starvation had not yet come upon them. In these days of -full feeding they were scarcely braver than the coyotes. It seems to be -true that any animal that hunts in packs or groups acquires a ferocity, -a wild and frenzied courage not possessed by the lone hunter. Partly it -is a matter of mob psychology, partly a sense of resistless -strength,—but its reality naturalists are unable to deny. It can be -seen even in the swarms of miniature ants that—with appalling -ferocity—will attack the greatest creatures of the wild. But there were -no packs here. The moonlit aisles were safe. - -Yet she did not want to go. It was as if the voice of reason within -her—the voice that urged her forth—were obscured by the incorporeal -voices that spoke in her inner being. One was that of the forest, and it -spoke in warning. “Come not on to my darkened trails,” it might have -said. “They are thine in the daylight hours, but at night they belong to -the beasts. This is the time of talon and fang, and thy flesh is tender. -I am old and wise, but also I am new, with the newness of the young -world. And my spirit is Death.” And the other voice was that of the -ruddy camp fire behind her. “Stay, stay, stay,” it crackled. “Here is -thy hearth and thy heart. Stay, tender one.” - -As the shadows encroached and the firelight grew ever more dim, she -found herself looking back—again and again—to the bright blaze. -To-night it was home, and these forest trails were dark and silent. She -entered the forest, but ever she saw its cheering gleam between the -trees,—a bright haven of refuge where Danger could not come. She didn’t -entirely understand. She had ventured forth into the forests at night -before, but never with such regret. - -She could still see the form of Hugh seated beside the fire; and the -sight moved her strangely. But she would not admit—even to -herself—that part of the appeal of that bright circle of light was due -to his presence. It had never seemed so dear, so much like home before, -but it could not be because of the straight, manly form that abode -there. Was he not just a lowly sheep herder, a weakling whose metal had -been proven false in the crucible of life? What did he mean to her: just -an employee that would soon pass on to other occupations. Yet she had -felt wholly secure and comforted beside his fire. She remembered the -play of his shoulders as he had hewed the fir log; and she found herself -longing for his protection now. Yet what right had she to think that -this weakened city man would be a fort in time of stress? She was of the -mountain strain, and unlike many of her city cousins she did not accept -the fact of his masculinity alone as being a tower of strength. Such -dangers as did abide in the Smoky Land forest were no respecters of the -males of the species: strength and courage alone must be tried and -proven. Hugh had failed in life, she thought; why should he not also -fail in courage and strength? The mountain women do not love weak men. -They are down to realities, life is a constant battle for existence, and -they want a warrior—whether gentleman or not—beside them through the -long, dangerous hours of night. Hers were the mountain standards. And -what could she expect from Hugh? - -She headed into the forest, and she saw the light of the camp fire wink -out behind her. It left her singularly alone. A vague depression came -upon her, an uneasiness that she could not name or place. There was a -sense of utter isolation never felt before. The feel of her pistol butt -in her pocket—her belt had been packed among the supplies—reassured -her. Then she hastened on, down the moonlit trail. - -The forest was never so mysterious. The moonlight had struck away all -sense of familiarity. The silver patches between the trees were of -fairyland, the dusk of the shadowed thicket was incredibly black; even -the changeless pines, majestic and inscrutable emblems of the -wilderness, were like great, nebulous ghosts of giants. The woodland was -full of ghosts: fleet-footed phantoms that sped along the trail before -her, ghostly shadows that leaped behind; little, feeble ghosts of noises -that couldn’t be real, and ghostly messages in the wind that whimpered -and cried in the distant thickets. Yet she could not feel the wind’s -breath on her face. Rather the forest was breathless, tense, vaguely -sinister as never before. - -Steep was the trail she took, and ever the silence seemed to deepen. She -kept watch ahead for the flock, pale white in the moonlight. She found -herself listening closely for any sound that might indicate their -position, either the faint bleat of the ewes or the triumph cries of -such beasts of prey that had killed from their numbers. But while she -did not hear these things, the silence was full of other, lesser sounds. -All the creatures of the forest were stirring in their night -occupations, and so deep and unfathomable was the stillness that it -seemed to her that she could discern their each little motion. Sometimes -it was the distant tread of the deer in the buckbush. No rains had -fallen since April; the brush was dead and dry as she had never before -seen it, and even the stalking folk made a misstep occasionally. She -heard the Little People stirring in the leaves; once a gopher, once a -porcupine rattled his quills with a pretended fierceness a short -distance off the trail, and once a lynx mewed like a domestic cat behind -her. - -She hastened on. She turned into a little valley that she knew,—a place -the mouth of which was obscured by brush and in which a wing of the -flock might have been easily lost. And then she found the white band, -bedded down for the night. - -There had been casualties earlier in the evening, but mostly the beasts -of prey had not yet found them. She started to drive them the long three -miles back to camp. - -Still the moonlight worked its conjurations in the forest; and she felt -a growing discomfiture. At first she laid it to nerves. She had been -tired after the day’s ride, and perhaps the long walk after the sheep -had overtaxed her already exhausted body. The sense of oppression, of -distant and unfamiliar peril in the forests about her grew ever more -pronounced. She tried in vain to hurry the sheep. Never, it seemed to -her, had they moved so slowly. The first mile took interminable ages, -the second was too long for belief. No luxury, no achievement by which -women usually gauge happiness could mean so much to her to-night as that -little bright circle in the distant camp over which Hugh stood guard. - -She was on the last mile by now, and she kept straining to see the first -gleam of the camp fire through the trees. Perhaps all her apprehension -had been but fancy, after all. It was only a little way -farther—scarcely a mile—and the adventure would soon be over. The -forest was oddly hushed and breathless. - -And at that instant a strange cry came tingling up to her through the -unfathomable depths of forest. It was such a sound as does not catch the -consciousness immediately, beginning too dim and faint even to recognize -as sound, and at first she found herself doubting its reality. The least -rustle of the thickets beside her, the faintest stir of the distant wind -drowned it out. Yet with such gradual encroachments as the hour hand -makes on the face of the watch, it swelled and grew until all disbelief -was dead, and all other sensation transcended. - -The deep silence of the primeval forest alone had enabled her to detect -it at first, but its quality of obscurity slowly passed away. Soon she -had begun to have some idea of the quality of its tones. It was slowly, -steadily gaining, and the only inference could be that whatsoever made -the sound was coming toward her at an incredible pace,—something that -ran behind her and cried out in beastial savagery. - -A frantic flood of thoughts swept over her: blind hopes that the cool -depths of her subconsciousness refused to accept. Perhaps the cries were -of some wilderness hunter on the trail of deer,—a trail that closely -coincided with her own. In a moment it would be just a thing to laugh at -and forget. But even her own prayers, her own unquenchable spirit of -optimism could not make the truth untrue. The grim fact slowly grew and -strengthened that whatever ran behind her was on her own trail, that she -was being remorselessly hunted through the still aisles of the forest. - -The wild cries were louder now, evolving from vague and distant -rumblings to prolonged and savage bays, ferocious as any wilderness cry -she had ever heard. It sounded like a _pack_,—that terrible -organization that knows no fear and against which not even the stately -elk can stand. The cries had a strange exultant quality, a sense of -power, and at the same time the hunting lust that can be discerned in -the yell of the wolf pack in their first strength of autumn. Yet this -was no autumn. The leaves were yet unfallen. The wolves were still -mated, or else ran in pairs. And a great fear began to creep like a -poison through her veins. - -And ever the chorus grew louder, swelling into a veritable thunder that -seemed to shudder, with long, undulating waves of sound, through the -hushed air. It seemed to her that she heard the distant pound of running -feet on the trail. And now she no longer gave thought to what these -hunters might be. It no longer mattered. She only knew that some new and -terrible peril was leaping forth upon her, a ferocious enemy that would -contest her effort to reach the safety of the fire. The sheep broke into -a run, and sobbing she sped after them. - - - - - CHAPTER XVI - - -Landy Fargo tried to approach the sheep camp with some caution. It was -an instinctive effort: he had not the slightest idea that the lone human -occupant of the little meadow could waken from his deep sleep to hear -him. Nevertheless, Fargo didn’t believe in taking unnecessary chances. -He rode slowly, trying to avoid the whip of dry brush against the -horse’s body. Yet it was to be noticed that the coyotes, lingering -hungrily at the flanks of the flock, slipped from the trail when he was -still two hundred yards distant. - -The thickets were unusually dry: they cracked and popped as the horse -passed through. Miniature explosions of popping twig and crackling brush -followed every step of the horse. - -Still there was no one to hear him. The forest was breathless. And all -at once, through a rift in the underbrush, he saw the gleam of Hugh’s -camp fire. - -For an instant Fargo’s human faculties simply and utterly deserted him; -and he stood gaping like a beast at the guttering flame. A strange -little shiver of cold and fear crept over him. He had expected only -moonlight and silence, perhaps the bedded sheep unwatched and a heap of -gray ashes, but a herder’s well-mended fire had not had a place in his -calculations at all. Twenty-four hours had passed since the murder, and -yet the flame still flickered like a soul that could not pass. Was it a -ghost fire: was the shapeless shadow that he thought he could make out -beside it the specter of one who had risen from Death to watch the -sheep? The sight went straight home to his dark superstitions. - -Just for a moment he sat motionless in the saddle; then he started to -turn back. His eyes bulged ever so slightly. And then a great cold -seemed to come down, stab, and transfix him. - -For a voice spoke from the camp. It came clear and strong into the -darkness where he waited. “Who’s there?” some one asked. - -Except for his sudden gusty breathing, Fargo made no sound in reply. He -started to turn his horse. - -“If you don’t answer, I’ll think it’s a coyote and shoot,” the voice -came again. “I give you till I count three——” - -Fargo had won his point by _bluffing_ many times, he had known how to -call the bluffs of other men; but he had no delusions about the hard, -quiet voice that came out to him from the fireside. Very plainly the man -meant what he said. But at least it wasn’t Dan the herder who had risen -and spoken. The tones and words were not the melodious utterances of the -Italian laborer who had been Hugh’s predecessor. The only other -explanation that occurred to Fargo was that the murder had been -discovered, and the man who had called him was an officer of the law who -had been put on guard. - -Fargo instantly decided it would not be wise to attempt to disobey these -summons. Like most wrongdoers he had an abject horror and fear of the -law, and the moment was of the greatest terror he had ever known. Yet he -dared not turn and flee. In his panic he was unable to remember that not -in one chance out of a hundred could a bullet find him in the darkness. -For all he knew the man at the fire was already staring at him through -his sights, and possibly the whole camp was surrounded by the officers. -His mouth felt dry, his hands numb as he rode out into the circle of -firelight. - -And then his fear changed in a moment to devastating rage. The form was -revealed quite clearly now: simply that of a lowly sheep herder in -soiled clothes and with unshaven face. Had José lied about the murder? -Yet this man was not Dan, the herder. There was nothing to believe but -that Crowson had already discovered the crime and had hired a -substitute. - -There was nothing to fear here. His arrogance swept back to him and his -eyes leaped savagely over the trim form that now had risen to greet him. -It was a slender figure, the kind he could hammer to paste beneath his -flailing fists. He swung down from the saddle, once more feeling himself -completely master of the situation. - -“What do you mean?” he demanded savagely, “hollerin’ out and threatenin’ -me that way.” - -Hugh looked at him, considering just what he had meant. And perhaps his -lips drew up in a faint smile. If there was one thing his experience -with the sheep had taught him, it was to smile: smile at misfortune, -smile at the little, everyday comedy of life,—and smile with real -amusement at such storming, bullying men as this. But it was true that a -moment before he had not been in the humor for mirth. He had known at -once that the step in the darkness was not that of the coyote, or any of -the hunters of the wild. It was a horse, and its rider could kill from a -distance: perhaps it was the same foe that had crept into camp the -previous night and had murdered Dan. His voice—he remembered with a -strange, inward pleasure—had sounded level and clear; but nevertheless -a wholly justified apprehension had been upon him. He had been entirely -at a disadvantage. He made a fair target beside the leaping flame and he -could not see his enemy at all. And he was still somewhat white about -the lips as he stood up. - -And if Fargo had only remained silent, Hugh would have been willing to -have welcomed him at his fire. The loneliness of the wild places was -already upon him, and any stranger that walked those darkened hills -might have found shelter in his own tent. And this was the man who—a -few days before—had been inwardly proud that he never made chance -acquaintances, that he never accepted another for friendship or -discourse except through the channels of his own social plane. It wasn’t -being done by the men he knew: to arrive at any comradeship without -first a correct introduction and then a certain amount of preliminary. -How great had been the change! Yet in this case the man was obviously -unfriendly; and Hugh slowly stiffened beneath his angry gaze. - -“What do you mean by it?” the man demanded. “Hollerin’ out?” - -“Why, I meant——” Hugh replied, in a perfectly casual tone, “exactly -what I said. That I’d shoot if you didn’t reveal yourself. I’m against -coyotes, wild or human. And what are you doing here?” - -Fargo noted with some amazement that the tables had been—as if by a -magician’s magic—instantly turned about; and that he himself was no -longer the inquisitor. He bristled, furious that this lowly herder -should not instantly yield to his own superiority. Yet he suddenly -remembered certain little facts that tended to restrain him. The man was -in his rights: and perhaps it was best to have some explanation for his -presence on the night following a murder. - -“Don’t go making any inferences you’ll regret later,” he warned. “I’m -bear huntin’—got a pack of dogs out there somewhere, and they got away -from me.” He stepped one pace nearer. “And I want you to know I’m not -expectin’ any back talk from such as you. All I’d have to do was to say -the word, and old Crowson would fire you in a minute.” - -“You’re one of his friends, are you?” Hugh asked easily. - -“He’ll do what I say—don’t you mind about that.” - -“Then perhaps”—Hugh struggled an instant and caught at a name that -Alice had spoken—“you’re José Mertos.” - -Fargo started—hardly perceptibly—and caught himself at once. “Do I -look like a Mexican?” he demanded. - -“Just a bit stout for a Mexican,” Hugh went on appraisingly. He didn’t -know why, but a slow anger had begun to take hold of him. “Then maybe -you’re—Fargo.” - -“And what if I am?” - -The eyes of the two men met, and Hugh saw the bulldog lips drawing back -over the strong teeth. The lids half-dropped over his own eyes, and he -stood as if deep in thought. - -He had been a little afraid, at first. Even now he was not blind to the -evident strength of the formidable body, the huge fists, the brutal -jaws. Yet—he suddenly knew to his vast amazement—these things no -longer mattered. Instinctively he knew that he was face to face with a -mortal foe; but he felt a miraculous trust in his own strength. - -“I know something about Landy Fargo,” Hugh answered quietly. “He’s not -the man I let sit by my fire. And the sooner you get away I think the -better it will be.” - -Fargo glared, and there ensued a half-second of strained silence, of -curious immobility on the part of them both. The fire blazed beside -them, the shadows leaped and danced, far away the moon gleamed on the -white peaks of the Rockies. The whole forest world was wrapped in -impenetrable silence. Fargo snarled, then started to turn. - -And at that instant each of them forgot—for a little while—each -other’s presence. They stood wholly silent, scarcely -breathing,—listening as men listen when life itself is at stake. From -far away in the still forest—in the direction that Alice had gone—both -of them heard the faint, savage bay of the hounds. - -No human being, at that distance, could mistake the cry. The pack was -hunting. It was running its game. And from the wild excitement and -exultation of the clamoring voices, it was plain that the trail was hot, -that the hounds were almost upon their prey. - -Hugh suddenly turned his eyes to Fargo, trying to interpret the strange, -exultant look in his brutal face. His own eyes narrowed. Then he -started,—a strange convulsive jerk that no man had ever seen in him -before. It was an instinctive recoil at a great dread and horror that -suddenly swept over him. There had been no time for thought. It was as -if a voice had spoken, instantly and clear, and had told him the real -character of that wild hunt in the darkness. - -For he had heard, infinitely dim but sharp as a needle prick through -almost a mile of silent forest, the explosion of Alice’s pistol. Some -great danger was upon her and her little flock; even now, perhaps, she -was fighting for her life. It was a moment of crisis not alone for her -but for him: the time in which his metal would be tried in the fire. He -knew, surely as if a voice had told him, that there were no seconds to -waste. - -“No,” he said clearly, “I believe you’d better stay here. I’ll take your -horse.” - -There was no time to catch and saddle Alice’s animal, feeding at the -edge of the meadow. There was no tone of request in the words. He had -simply given an order: with his very life he would see that it was -obeyed. - -“You will, will you?” Fargo howled. “We’ll see about that——” - -Hugh reached for the reins, and it seemed to him that Fargo’s hand was -fumbling at his hip. That in itself didn’t matter. Hugh only knew that -he wanted the horse and that nothing must stand in the way. Fargo was -shouting, his dark mouth was open. And Hugh lashed out with his fist, -aiming straight for the savage lips. - -He struck with all his strength, scarcely in rage but just as a means to -an end. He had never fought before, yet the blow came unerringly and -with terrific power. There could be only one result to such a blow as -that. He dimly heard Fargo grunt—like a beast as it falls below the -butcher’s stroke—then saw him reel and fall. He started to swing into -the saddle. - -It was better, he thought, that this man remain unconscious until he -returned. He didn’t forget that he was still shepherd of the flocks and -that Fargo was an enemy. Some great test lay before him, and the fewer -his foes the better. He leaped down—like a cougar springing from his -ambush—and struck once with each fist into the soggy, brutal face. - -They were terrific blows, but expedience, rather than cruelty, was the -motive behind them. Hugh did not even wonder at himself. He swung -lightly on to the horse and lashed it to a gallop. - - - - - CHAPTER XVII - - -These were not wolves. This fact dawned upon Alice Crowson, running her -little flock at top speed toward the camp, before ever she saw their -savage forms burst forth from the thickets behind and even before she -discerned the twitch and leap of their shadows in the distant stretch of -moonlit canyon. Only in the starving time of winter had wolves -approached with such terrible fearlessness and frenzy. Nor was the cry -that long, strange running song of the wolf pack. She knew their breed. -They were enormous hounds: such a savage pack as might have started -forth from some awful Underworld of fable. - -And it would have been better were they wolves. Not for nothing has man -waged immemorial centuries of warfare, not only upon wolves but on the -great felines as well. They have been taught a wholesome respect for the -tall breed that has come to dominate the earth, and much hunger and -madness must be upon them before they will dare raise fang or claw -against him. But it is not this way with dogs. They have lived among men -since the first days of the cave dwellers; they have found men out; they -have been willing slaves and faithful servants, and once the impulse -comes to attack, there is no ingenerate barrier of instincts to hold -them back. - -Alice glanced behind, and the Little People that watch with such bright -eyes all the dramas of the forest heard her utter an unfamiliar sound. -It sprang instinctively to her lips. “Hugh!” she cried to that beetling -silence. “Help me, Hugh.” Yet she knew that she cried in vain. She was -still more than half a mile from the camp; and Hugh could not hear her, -and he could not save. - -For the pack had revealed itself. There was a stretch behind her almost -bare of underbrush; the great trees laid shadows across it like iron -bars across the windows of a cell, and shapeless black shadows were -leaping across it. There was a countless number of them, and they seemed -to be overtaking her with heart-breaking rapidity. Instantly she knew -that she could not hope to reach the camp before they would be upon her. - -She must not permit herself to lag behind. Her place was with the sheep. -The savage hounds were on their track, and her one hope was that her -presence, with the aid of the pistol, might hold them off until she -could head the helpless band into the camp. She tried to blind her eyes -to another, more dreadful, possibility. This was no time to admit it -into her thoughts. But surely, surely they would not attack _her_. Dogs -always barked and menaced, but they rarely really attacked human beings. -Yet the thought kept creeping back, haunting her, filling her—in those -little seconds of stress in which the pack leaped nearer—with an -unnamable horror. It couldn’t be that they were so frantic that they -would tear her down in order to get at their prey. Fate did not have -that in store for her at least,—their cruel fangs at her tender flesh, -their leaping, frenzied bodies lingering just an instant beside her, -then racing on after the terrified sheep. - -It occurred to her that there might be time, even yet, to spring up a -tree and leave the sheep to their fate. Yet was not she the shepherdess, -the guardian of the flock? But she saw the issue clearly, and her eyes -glanced about for some tree with branches low enough where she could -climb to safety. But already that chance was lost. She was in a region -of open forest—great trees standing one by one with branches starting -fully fifty feet above ground—and even now the dogs were at her heels. - -She swung about, she saw their huge, dark forms in the moonlight. No man -could look into their yellow-green eyes and doubt the madness that was -upon them. The pack seemed to divide, some of them closed in, the others -circled about and arrested the flight of the sheep. They drew up, wholly -enclosed by the savage ring. And Alice reached for her pistol. - -Through its long years that forest had never beheld a stranger scene: -the huddled band of white sheep, the girl—the eternal shepherdess of -the wilderness—standing guard over them, the savage pack in its grim -circle. Over it all abided the mystery of the moon, and ranged about -were the tall, impassive pines. The high range behind was a sweep of -incredible beauty. But just an instant the tableau endured. It broke, -the enchanted immobility of the forms gave way to lightning movement, -the shadows leaped—met—sprung apart with the sense of infinite motion, -the whole scene was in an instant the wild confusion and stress of a -nightmare. The hounds sprang toward the sheep. - -Alice screamed, cried out, then fired her pistol. Her aim was none too -good the first shot. Her terror cost her the steadiness of her hand. Yet -at once she recalled the dreadful fact that the only shells she carried -were in her pistol, her reserve supply having been packed among her camp -supplies, and she must not waste one. But the leaping dogs were an -almost impossible target: her second shot succeeded only in scratching -along the shoulder of Old Ben, the pack leader, arousing his savagery -all the more. - -The sheep were dying now. Already the scene was one of unspeakable -carnage. Yet it was true that the full madness of the feast of death was -not yet upon them. They lingered to worry their dead before springing to -a fresh victim. And such times gave Alice her only feeble chance to use -her pistol. - -The third shot went true: the dog fell kicking in the dry pine needles. -Two of the others, maddened by the sight of the death struggle, sprang -with revolting fury upon his defenseless body. She fired at them, -sobbing when she saw she missed again. It was her fourth shot; and only -two remained. - -A pistol has never the power of a rifle. It lacks the ability to shock -and stun, and, worse, has nothing of its deadly accuracy. And it was all -too plain that she had not succeeded in terrifying the pack. Still they -plunged at the sheep, avoiding only those that were crowded about her -knees, and their fury was increasing with every instant. Every breath -saw more of their domestic instincts fall away from them, giving way to -the deadly passions of the wild. - -She fired the fifth time, and once more she shot true. The dog died in -the pine needles. Then she heard the pistol’s sharp sound again. - -Then, at the darkest thought of all, a sob caught at her lips. Perhaps -she should not have fired that last, little remaining pistol ball. For -she looked and saw that a new madness, a more terrible ferocity had come -upon the pack. - -Perhaps it was just that they were launching full upon the feast of -death at last. Perhaps the sheep died too tamely, and in their pack -strength they were swept with new desires. The pungent smell of blood, -the shots, the casualties in their own ranks, and the sight of this -slight, sobbing figure in the middle of the white band filled their -canine brains with fury and their veins with lust. Their excitement was -at the highest pitch: and she raised her voice in a frantic scream for -help. - -For her eyes had dropped down to Ben, the terrible leader of the pack; -and his glowing eyes were no longer fixed upon the sheep. Instead he was -crouched, snarling,—just out of leaping range in front of her; and -white foam was at his fangs. And then he came creeping toward her, -across the blood-stained pine needles. - -Out of the corner of her eyes she saw other black forms, all of them -snarling, all of them stealing along the flanks of the little flock in -her direction. There was no defense. The last cartridge in her little -pistol had been spent. Regret, infinitely bitter, seized her at the -realization that the last shot should have been saved for her own moment -of ultimate need. - - * * * * * - -Darting down the narrow game trail, Hugh Gaylord sped in the direction -of the shots. In all the forest dramas that the pines had looked down -upon—the lightning flight of the deer before the wolf pack, the elk -speeding madly with the lynx at his flanks—they had never seen a more -desperate ride, a wilder race. He had lashed the horse into the fastest -pace it knew: not loping, not running easily, but a frantic run to burst -open the heart and force the jets of blood through the walls of the -veins. Hugh was riding for Alice’s life, and the least fraction of the -last second might hold the issue. - -He had only one thought and one prayer: that he could arrive in time. He -scarcely tried to guide the horse. He left it to the animal’s instincts -to keep to the trail. It was only a little moonlit serpent between walls -of brush or through the open tree-lanes; it had treacherous turns, and -here and there great logs had fallen across it, yet the reins hung loose -and he flailed at the animal’s side with the strap ends. He didn’t know -when a low-hanging limb of a tree would crush his skull, when the horse -would trip and hurl him to his death. These things simply did not -matter. They scarcely entered his mind. - -All thoughts of self, even realization of self-identity was gone from -him: he was simply the rescuer, speeding to give aid. He suddenly -knew—in a blinding flash of light—that in this undertaking not even -his own life mattered a hair. If she had been a stranger to him, even -the lowliest herdsman, Hugh Gaylord would still have raced to give aid. -The Old Colonel had not been mistaken in his judgment of Hugh’s basic -metal, and he would have stood, bravely and strongly, this elemental -test of manhood. But this was more. The forest was shadowed, the trail -was dark, yet Hugh saw more clearly than ever before. Life and death -were not the only issues now. All of infinity, it seemed to him, hung in -the balance; and no inward doubts, no voice of reason could make it -less. - -In one instant he realized that Alice was in her own being his life and -death, his heaven and hell, his spirit and his world and his stars. She -called him through the night, and as long as life dwelt in his body he -would fight toward her. Her hands reached out to him, and he would grasp -them boldly across the yawning chasm. Danger, death, travail and pain -were but gifts to give, freely, with never a regret. The way was dark, -but an inward light had come to him. - -He heard the second shot, then the third and the fourth. He sped on. The -clamor of the pack seemed just at hand. Sharp and piercing above it the -last shot reached him. And then there was a long delay, a grim silence -that seemed to tear him to pieces with horror. Was the fight over? Did -she already lie still? The pack, also, was ominously silent, snarling -rather than baying. The pistol was empty,—and Hugh guessed the truth. - -To Alice, in that forest nightmare of terror, the last hope seemed gone. -The great hounds were creeping toward her, strangely wolfine in their -stealth, and it seemed to her that their muscles were gathering to leap. -She alone stood in the way of the gratification of their lust. Was not -the death-feast waiting, with only her frail body and her pistol, oddly -silent, to stand between? Besides, their madness was at its height. - -“Hold firm,” a voice kept pleading in her ears. It was the voice of her -own being, an inner knowledge that she must still look straight into -those lurid eyes. She must not yield herself to terror. To turn, to -waver but an instant meant that those white fangs would flash toward her -throat. And now the last little vestige of her dominance over them was -spent. - -She couldn’t hold them at bay any more. Ever they were escaping her, -they were crouching lower, their fangs were bared and gleaming. And she -had thrown away the last, grim chance that her pistol had afforded. No -shot remained to put her forever beyond the ravening circle’s power to -harm. The last gate of mercy was irremediably closed. - -She was no longer aware of her own screams—scream after scream that -soared and throbbed and died in the silence. They carried far, and they -wakened strange conjectures in the dark minds of the coyotes, skulking -on a distant trail. The prey was at bay, then, the coyotes knew,—the -dog pack was at the kill, and, they trembled and shivered themselves -with passion. Hugh heard the sounds, and they were like strangling cords -about his throat. - -The sounds seemed only to further madden the dogs. There was nothing for -them to fear—the pistol was silent, the tall, erect form among the -sheep had not the strength of the least of them. She stood so slight, so -appalled, no more to be feared than one of the ewes that now lay so -silent, its whiteness so streaked and stained with red, in the pine -needles. Her fate could be the same as that of the lamb, thrown by Fargo -to their kennels. - -The moment of silence and waiting was almost at an end. In an instant -dreadful activity would return to those tense figures, just as when they -had attacked the sheep. One little breath remained. Her faltering hands -clasped at her breast, as if to shield it. - -And then her dull, terror-dimmed eyes saw a strange thing. At first -there was only disbelief, then amazement, then a rapturous flood of -hope. For the fierce eyes of the dogs were no longer upon her. It was as -if they had forgotten her existence, but rather that their attentions -had been fixed and held by something beyond the wall of thickets. They -were gazing beyond her, and all of them were growling, uneasily, deep in -their throats. And at last, in the little interludes between her -screams, she heard the wild hoofbeats of the approaching horse. - -Hugh swept up to her, not daring to fire at first. The dogs were too -near to her for that. He sprang with incredible strength from the -horse’s back, and the butt of his rifle swung high. And there was a -strange, half-strangled shriek of a dying hound as the blow struck home. - -And that was the first blow of a mighty battle—a fierce conflict to the -death that may—for all human beings may know—be cave talk among the -beasts until the forests grow old and die. The rifle butt, reinforced -with iron, withstood the force of the shock, and he swung it down again. -Hugh fought with the fury of a wild creature himself, and behind it was -the high purpose and the inner strength that has made man the ruler and -master of the earth. But it lasted only a moment. For a time that seemed -interminable the animals leaped at the tall figure among them, their -fangs tore his flesh and his clothes, and he swung his weapon back and -forth like a battle-ax of old. But he was the master, he was of the -dominant breed, and more than anything else in the face of this crisis -he was not afraid. And the coward that dwells just under the skins of -such beasts as these came forth and claimed them. - -They broke and fled, one by one, and many were those that lay with -broken backs at his feet. The first law of the forest is that it is -better to run away than to die; but now they were out of striking range -he opened fire upon them with his rifle, and with amazing, deadly -accuracy. The air was full of their dying screams. No longer would the -pack chase the black bear through the ridges. Their strength was broken -and Fargo’s plan had failed. - -But the moment meant more than this. To Alice it was deliverance in the -last instant of despair. Now she lay fainting among the fallen, but -Hugh, bleeding and triumphant, saw that she was uninjured. To Hugh it -was almost a justification of life itself. He knew the joy of victory, -the glory of strength. - - * * * * * - -And Hugh’s strength was still upon him when, after certain hours were -done, he came back to the prone body of Fargo—consciousness only half -returned to it—beside the dying fire at the sheep camp. He had been -sleeping peacefully and was not easy to waken. - -“You can have your horse now,” Hugh had said, when at last he gained the -man’s attention. He spoke quite clearly and distinctly, and all matters -returned to Fargo’s consciousness with a rush. “And, of course, you can -have your dogs, too. There’s quite a little heap of them for you back -there in the forest.” - -It seemed to Fargo, when he went to look, that only a laugh followed him -out of the firelight. It was to haunt him for months, that laugh. There -_was_ quite a heap of them,—an impotent heap that Fargo stood by clear -into the dawn, strange fumes of rage and hatred in his brain. The -buzzards dropped down one by one to see what had interested him. - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII - - -The summer days dragged by, one by one, until they were all gone. Moons -waxed and waned, annual plants budded, flowered, and died, the glossy -green of the pine needles changed to a dusky blue; and all of these -things were as they should be. There was, however, one important and -disastrous omission. No rain had fallen since April. - -It was bad for all the forest in general and very bad for certain people -in particular. Of course, the little underground folk, such as the -digger squirrels and gophers, didn’t particularly care. Their small -stomachs seemed to be lined with fur; and the dryer the brushwood the -easier they could gnaw it. Old Urson, the porcupine, might have found -this arid season quite to his liking. But it was more than possible that -he didn’t even know it hadn’t rained. For Urson is ever lost in a -strange apathy, a mental stupor, and life must be to him an inscrutable -mystery without head or tail. He is guileless and stupid and so slow -that even a cub-bear can overtake him (although clumsy little Woof, -because of certain removable decorations on Urson’s back, would not care -to do it a second time) and one of his only two advantages is an utter -indifference to the water supply. He can get along very well on the -moisture in the tree limbs on which he browses. His other advantage is, -of course, a convertible-armor arrangement that he uses for a back. One -minute, and Urson looks sleek and almost as handsome as, say, a -dromedary seen through the wrong end of a telescope. The next, and he -becomes a formidable bundle of bristling spines, a veritable burr that -is most painful to touch. - -Of course the poison people did not care. They could swim on demand, of -course, but they were not fond of water. If rain came any time during -the following winter it would be soon enough for them. They lay in heavy -sleep on the rock ledges where the heat waves danced. It isn’t wise, -however, to put one’s trust in that slumber and go climbing over those -sun-blasted rocks with unprotected ankles. A rattlesnake may look dead -as last year’s leaves, he may lie so still that even the buzzard—in the -sky—is deceived, and yet he can spring straight out of his dark, wicked -dreams and bury his hypodermic needles, filled with as deadly a poison -as a scientist can concoct in his laboratory, in the exact spot of man’s -flesh he chooses. The heat waves danced and spiraled in the air, the -rocks grew too hot to touch, and still the serpents lay in their heat -trance, wholly content. And lastly, the buzzards had no complaint with -the drought. - -For disaster to the forest creatures always means triumph to the -buzzards. They are the undertakers, the followers of the dead. If _all_ -the streams and _all_ the springs should dry up, the buzzards would be -in their glory. There is a legend, passed down from mother to fledgling -among them, that long ago such a drought did happen, and that is what -the ancient birds think about when they soar so endlessly in the sky. -And there is a prophecy that some time such an hour of glory will come -again. - -But the deer found poor feeding. The grass was dry as dust, the leaves -crinkly and crisp, their favorite saltlicks were hard, dry mud. Most of -the springs were dried up, the lesser tributaries of Silver Creek were -only successions of stagnant pools in which the silver people were -already dying and turning white bellies to the sun. The grubs that the -old black bear loved were dried to little flakes, like grease spots, on -the dead logs; and the berries withered and dropped off before they ever -ripened. The wolves ran their game, and since in the hot, stifling days -exhaustion came quickly to their prey, perhaps they benefited, rather -than suffered, from the drought. But these gray hunters can always be -expected to benefit. “Mercy from Cold-Eye is the season that betrays the -wolf,” is one of those strange maxims among the forest people, and it -needs, like most of the forest sayings, a certain amount of -interpretation. Cold-Eye is the forest name for the rattlesnake, and no -man who has seen the evil diamonds in his head can doubt that it is a -good one. And mercy is the one thing that can never be expected from the -rattler. It is the same as saying that it will be a snowy day in July -when the wolf cannot turn the most far-spread disaster to his own -account. Everything always turns out all right for the gray rangers. And -maybe that is the reason why, in spite of endless centuries of warfare -with men, they still fill the autumn woods with their songs. - -But Broken Fang, the great tawny king of the pumas, and all his lithe -and deadly younger brethren almost starved to death. Their whole hunting -success depended on a noiseless stalk upon a breed of creatures with -ears sharp enough to hear the predatory beetles utter their kill screams -in the air, and even the feline cushioned feet could not step with -silence in the dry brush. At first there was only gnawing hunger and -distemper, then frantic ferocity, and finally almost a madness wherein -blue lights dwelt ever in their eyes and agonized convulsions came to -the muscles of their throats. Even the porcupines heard them come in -time to climb out to the end of the tree limbs, and by the middle of -September Broken Fang was ready and willing to lie in ambush a whole -night for the sake of a chipmunk that might venture forth from its nest. - -The instinct of all the creatures was to climb ever higher,—into the -far, lovely grass slopes of the high peaks. In these places the melting -snow, the colder nights and days, the moisture-laden winds that swept -across them removed, in some degree, the effect of drought. The rains -would certainly come in October, but it began to look as if, unless -better hunting were found in these high realms, the starving felines -could not survive the few weeks that remained. But there were good -prospects in these high trails. Dwelling in the wastes of sliderock and -snow field, feeding on the grass slopes and scaling the loftiest cliffs, -lived the very monarchs of the mountains, creatures that weighed up to -two hundred and fifty pounds, and who even in these starving times were -tender and fat. - -They were the mountain sheep. Far above timber line, in the land where -the great snow banks endured through the centuries, these hardy -creatures lived and died and had their being: the finest game, the -richest trophies, perhaps the most interesting wild animals in all North -American fauna. Here old Surefoot and Argali, the two greatest of the -bighorn rams, fought their battles in the fall. There were no heavy -thickets for ambush, but Broken Fang could find niches and sharp turns -in the trail where he could wait for the ewes to wander by. - -Because they had a strong man and a faithful dog to care for them, -Crowson’s flock of domestic sheep weathered the drought with little -discomfort. It was true that the herbage was dry and tasteless, but the -sheep are a breed that has learned to fare well where cattle would die. -They nibbled the leaves and twigs; Hugh led them to the greenest glens, -the richest meadows, and his weekly change of camp site found them ever -higher on the range where the effects of drought were less. And in the -last days of September they were so high that the old leader of the -bighorn flock could look down and see these tame brethren, like moving -fields of snow, on the slopes beneath. - -These days had been good to Hugh. Every one had been a fresh delight, -every night had fallen to find a greater strength and a higher peace in -his spirit. Was not this his destiny? Had he not come to his Lost Land, -after many years of wandering on dark and unknown trails? Could his home -be elsewhere than on these rugged mountains, the shadow of the forest -upon him, and the green glades lying in the beauty of the moon? All his -life, it seemed to him, his spirit had gone groping—here and there—for -something it could never find; and here, behind the flocks, it had found -it at last. - -He loved the long days of wandering, the nights of vigil, the cool camps -in the forest shadow, the little daily adventures that were all part of -the eternal war that the powers of the wilderness waged upon the -dominance and works of man. Sometimes these took the form of a wolf, -striking like a gray shadow from a clump of underbrush and making his -kill before Hugh could raise his weapon, sometimes the measured stalk of -a cougar on the fold. The fight was never done. Never the night -descended but that the age-old battle cry of the wild—the howl of a -wolf or a scream of a cougar in the gloom—would come soaring, eerie and -wild past all telling, to his ears. And more than once the leaping flame -of his camp was the center of a circle of fire,—twin disks, here and -there, wherever the eyes might fall. - -The inanimate wild itself menaced the flock. It wasn’t easy to find -watering places in these days of drought. There were deep glens—box -canyons the mountaineers call them—into which stray bands from the -flock would wander and be unable to find the way out. Sometimes arms of -the brush thickets cut them off from their fellows, and these were the -times when Running Feet and his savage companions were in their glory. -Hugh found an ever-increasing delight in testing his own strength and -skill against the sinister forces of the wild. It was his joy to give -the flock the best possible care: keeping down its casualties, choosing -the best feeding grounds, and protecting them from panic or excitement. -And as the result of his vigilance, few of his sheep died of sickness, -and the lambs grew like weeds. - -“You know, Hugh,” the girl told him one day, “you are a wonderful -herder. We owe you more than we can ever pay.” - -No praise had ever meant so much. “I have to be a good one,” the man -replied, glowing. “I have to make up for the years I’ve wasted. -Besides—it seems to come naturally to me.” - -He had never spoken a truer word. It seemed to him that this was his -ordained place,—behind the flocks as they fed through the forest. - -He liked the long still nights in which he knew the solace of the fire, -and the whispering and the mystery that crept to him from the forest. He -felt that he had lost all love of pretentious things. His standards were -true at last, and the little, simple joys that came to him now meant -more than all the luxury of his former life. His pipe—no longer tasting -of varnish but cool and sweet—his simple meals, the little triumphs of -his day’s work, his refreshing rest after the day’s fatigue gave him -unmeasured joy. He had the lasting satisfaction of work well done, of -time profitably spent. Already, he reflected, he had some hundred -dollars to show his friends in the Greenwood Club! But that famous -organization seemed infinitely distant now. It was as if it had never -been real: that all his days he had roamed behind the sheep. - -Strangely, he no longer even missed the old days. The love of strong -drink was gone from his body. He didn’t look a great deal like the man -that the Old Colonel had sent forth from the Greenwood Club. His hands -and face had been brown before, now they were almost as dark as those of -Pete, his late guide. A fast walk over the ridges did not fatigue him -now. He was lean and hard as hickory, the muscles rippled under his -toughened skin, the sweet, mountain air rushed deep in his lungs. It was -almost recreation: never in his old life had he known the buoyancy, the -tireless strength, the simple joy of living vibrant and alive in every -nerve. There was a curious change in his eyes, too. The little -blood-splotches had quite gone from the whites, and they were a firm, -pale blue. The corneas looked slightly more hard and bright, and the -lines that dissipation had enscribed were almost gone. - -“Go for two weeks,” the Old Colonel had said. “And Lord knows—it might -make a man of you.” - -Two weeks! Three months had already passed, and whether Alice knew it or -not, that remote possibility that the Old Colonel had hoped for had -already come true. Hugh had done a man’s work: the degree had been won. -For the law that was true in the earth’s young days is true to-day; it -endures when scorn has spent itself and false pride is humbled: that by -toil and conflict alone shall men find their place, their honor, and -their happiness. Hugh knew now, as he watched his sheep, that this was -the world of the warrior, not the weakling; of those who gave, not those -who took; of those who stood firm and endured, not those who broke and -fled from the crash of armor. - -He did not doubt but that he had already been forgotten by the members -of the Greenwood Club. Three months had he been gone: another played his -hand at poker, another occupied his favorite seat in the club dining -room. But of course they would forget him! There was no comradeship of -arms, no mutual memories of trial and strife and conquest to hold them -close to him. He had supposed that he had known them intimately, their -natures and their souls, but now he realized that they had been but -strangers, after all. Living an artificial life, he had seen only -exteriors. He had flattered himself—in his subconscious mind rather -than conscious—that they were close and lasting friends. Now he knew -that only the fire of conflict and stress can weld a lasting friendship -between man and man. Friendship is too dear and precious a thing to find -in soft ways. That, like all of the other rewards of life, goes only to -the warrior. - -He was forgotten: the night life of the club whirled on without him. The -talk was the same, the lights glittered as ever, the crowds thronged -through the streets without, the same round of gaieties made its -lifeless and eternal circuit. By a strange paradox he suddenly knew that -if he were remembered at all, it was by those who had shared with him in -his debauches. And after all they had been the most vital part of his -old life. They were the thing most worth while. At least he had _lived_ -then, he had known basic exultations and passions, he had not been soft -and dead. There had been stress, wakefulness, vitality. Perhaps their -pleasure lay in the fact that they had _simulated_ life. But by the -other clubmen, men he had laughed with and talked to, he was simply one -who had been and passed on. - -He was stirred to the depths of his being by the contrast here. He -laughed at the thought that he might ever be forgotten by the companion -beside him now,—the great shepherd dog that muzzled his hands. Had they -not fought on the same side in battle? Had they not faced the same -enemies, known the same stress, felt the same pinch of cold in the crisp -dawns and the same cheering warmth of the fire? Had they not gone -together into still and sinister glens after the lost sheep? They had -braved the dangers, they had endured the storms, they had fought the -same fight for the same reward,—the joy of living and of service. Here -was one of whom he did not know merely the exterior. He felt the -animal’s heart pounding against his own body, and he knew its strength -and its courage. Its fidelity, its love, its true and noble worth could -not be put into words. And here was a friend, as long as blood stirred -in his veins, who would be faithful. - -No artificial lights glittered in these mountains. Rather Hugh knew -those known to the shepherds who watched the sky for a sign in olden -days,—the peace of the stars and the glory of the moon. The only talk -was such as he and the shepherd dog had together, the complaint of the -sheep, and the voices of the forest about him. The crowds were far, the -gaieties were known at last as the dreams they really were, and in their -place was the silence, the inner peace, the joy of conquest, and the -white sheep, feeding in the shadow of the high peaks. He was far and -alone, but he was content. - -But Hugh was not entirely forgotten. Even now the Old Colonel sat in his -chair in the lounging room, his factory-tied tie at an angle at his -collar, his hands folded, his eyes seeing out and beyond the city that -stretched about him. And to him, at least, Hugh was still a reality. -Even if he were dead—slain in some great stress in those far -Rockies—he was more vital and alive in the Colonel’s eye than he had -ever been before. Had he won, or had he failed? Was he standing straight -or had he fallen? Had he gone down, or even now was he sitting, redeemed -and recreated, beside his camp fire in the Land of Mighty Men? - - - - - CHAPTER XIX - - -Beyond all other joys and compensations for these three months in Smoky -Land, there remained—a subject for humble thanks to the skies—the -comradeship of Alice. Every day it made the struggle more worth while, -his happiness more complete. - -She made periodical trips to his camps, bringing food for himself and -salt for his sheep, and assisting him as he moved the flock from range -to range. He counted the days of her absence, and the nights that she -sat beside his fire simply opened a new world to him. They had a -thousand things to tell each other: Hugh’s little victories over coyotes -and cougars, the new tricks of Spot the flock leader, some little -faithfulness on the part of Shep, the dog, and their exultation at the -passing of the days. For if they passed the present month in safety, if -Fargo and his gang did not rout them before October first, the victory -was won. - -She cooked his meals and mended some of the holes in his soiled -clothing, and her laugh rang with the bells of fairyland over their -silent camp. They had serious moments in which—with far-reaching -intimacy—they told each other their own secret thoughts and -philosophies of life—sober talk such as was never heard in the rooms of -the Greenwood Club. For the first time in his life Hugh had really known -self-expression. The inmost springs of his nature flowed forth. And he -was constantly amazed and delighted by the girl’s ideas and points of -view. There was nothing particularly modern about them. In fact, Hugh -thought that they had passed from the earth in his grandmother’s time. -Of course they were trite, perhaps they could have been proven -ridiculous by the logic of a realist, and the only reason she had for -them was the impulse of her own conscience; yet Hugh found himself -staring at her as if she were a being from another planet. But Hugh’s -amazement was due to his own lack of knowledge of the heart of humanity. -He would have been surprised to know that ninety out of every hundred -girls, east and west and south and north, had the same illogical -conscience, the same high heart, the same ideals. Although he would have -tumbled over backward if any one had told him so, Hugh just hadn’t been -around. He had known but one little circle, and heretofore he hadn’t -been able to see outside it. - -Alice was girlish, spontaneous, unaffected to the last degree. Sometimes -they romped and raced like children about their camp fire. They exulted -over their meals, they told high secrets, they tingled and thrilled in -the mystery of the nights. She had a businesslike, matter-of-fact way in -going about her tasks that delighted the man past words. She was as -clean and sweet and unspoiled as the mountain flowers that grew about -her,—but wholly able to take care of herself. As she camped beside the -flocks her pistol was always in reach of her hand. And the very ideas -that Hugh so loved in her simply filled his nights with horror. - -Of course it was ridiculous,—but the thoughts of lovers often are. And -he did love her, with all the earnestness of his wakened being, with a -growing, breathless love that seemed natural as living. The point was -passed, long ago, wherein he could doubt that fact. And now he didn’t -even have self-wonder that he should have come to these mountain realms -and loved a mountain girl. It seemed simply his own inevitable destiny. - -And he was humble and fearful as a callow boy about the whole thing. -Nothing of his herdsman’s life would have been so amusing to the members -of the Greenwood Club as this. For Hugh had known women in plenty; he -had been an eligible in a circle where eligibles were scarce, and these -clubmen thought that his last delusion in regard to them was gone. He -had been husband-hunted,—and the deer that has been stalked by a cougar -no longer sees beauty in the lights of its eyes! But now his old -arrogance and sophistication had fallen away from him. He searched -frantically and in vain for qualities within himself by which he might -hope to deserve this girl’s love. - -Had he not been a waster, a slacker from the works of men? Had he -anything in general or particular because of which he might expect a -girl to love him? The things on which he used to pride himself had been -suddenly revealed as so much dust in his hands—inherited wealth, social -distinction, an influential ancestry. Here, he rightly concluded, these -three things were not worth the powder to blow them up. He did remember, -with some pride, that he had a certain amount of physical strength. -Already that had been of use to Alice, and the time might come wherein -it would be of use again. He was a fairly able sheepman, and he had -already earned over a hundred dollars. But he felt like a peasant, -offering his heart to the queen of the realm. It got down to a serious -matter that as yet he did not feel that he had justified his own -existence, that he had established himself in the great world of men and -toil, and that he had not yet been purged by the fires of trial and -stress, and redeemed in battle. - -He mourned her when she left to bring supplies, and welcomed her with -the abandon of a child when she came back to him. In the early nights, -in the fire’s glow, dreams of her were ever with him, filling him with -strange, happy glowings and warm little quivers of delight. But his love -for her did not make him forget his sheep. The great test by which his -metal was tried lay in his degree of success as herder of the flocks. - -Never did he get away from a haunting feeling that here—beside the -white sheep—he was face to face with life at last. Here, not in his -cities, were the realities, the essentials of life: the feeding flock, -the shelter, the circle of firelight into which the powers of the -wilderness dared not stalk. Fresh and fresh he felt the age-old appeal -of the soil, the love of the throbbing earth, the inner warmth, an -undying and wondrous communion with nature. He waged his war against the -forces of the wild, and the sense of destiny fulfilled was ever with -him. And why not,—for were men strangers to the sheep? Could their -ancient acquaintance be forgotten in a few little centuries of exile in -cities? Had they not been out—through the long course of the -ages—under the same stars, felt the same winds, endured the same -dangers? In the first dawn of civilization, dim and far away through the -mists of the past, the herdsman cared for his sheep in the green -pastures,—and it was in the blood. - -Sometimes this old acquaintance was recalled to Hugh in dreams. There -was one dream in particular that came to him night after night. It never -seemed to vary, and its spell always endured a few moments after -wakening. So real it was, so vivid, it was almost as if it had been some -actual experience in his own life, rather than a remembered vista from -the immeasurable past. He always seemed to be sitting, half-dozing, -before a fire,—a fire not greatly different from that which burned -before him in reality. It was always so red, so cheering, that the love -of it seemed to shiver his heart to pieces. The forest always stretched -about him, silent, mysterious, sinister past all words. And there were -always the sheep. - -Always, in his dream, he guarded the sheep. It was a matter of life -itself. And Death was always waiting for him the instant he relaxed his -vigilance. It was not an easy passing, a swift crossing to a happy, -bright, quiet land from which he might return and whisper in the night. -It was always darkness and cold and pain, and most of all it was fear. -The sheep were white in the same moon, the same stars were in the sky. -But the tent was absent. Such a thing was without his bourn of thought. -In the darkness he dared not leave the fire to seek shelter from the -rain. And as he dozed he sat in a somewhat different position,—usually -leaning forward, his hands locked behind his head. And in the summer -nights the hair on his arms drained off the rain. - -Shep was still beside him, and the communion between them was even more -close than in life. They seemed almost like brothers, rather than master -and servant. A peace that was almost rapture abided in their -companionship. And it was necessary that Shep remain awake while he -himself dozed. But the dog’s outline was vaguely different. The ears -were always pointed and erect, the tail was not so lifted, and sometimes -when Hugh caught a sudden glimpse of him out of the corner of his eye, a -swift wave of icy terror swept over him. The dog was like -Cry-in-the-night,—that was it! He was gray and white-fanged just like -the wolves themselves. - -Even the wind—the air—was different. It was full of smells that -stirred the flesh, and hushed little sounds to freeze the blood with -dread. It was vibrant and shuddering and alive, and the world had not -yet begun to grow old. And he always felt an overwhelming pride in his -own strength. His arms—curiously long and quite black with hair—could -crush the ribs of Cry-in-the-night like an eggshell. His chest was huge, -his legs were knotted and gigantic, and when he saw his reflection in -the water of the spring, the hairy growth was long and matted about his -throat. And clearest of all the dream was the ring of deadly shadows -that ever encroached upon the space of firelight, and the strange twin -lights that ever glowed from their depths. - -Two and two, everywhere he looked. They always glowed hungrily, and -their watch was never done. Curious blue-green and yellow disks of fire, -close together and glowing ever in the darkness. Sometimes he would open -his lips and shout,—and for an instant they would draw back. They were -afraid of that wild cry of his, but they were more afraid of the flint -dagger that lay at his side. Ah, they died quickly—with a scream and a -howl—when the Death Flint went into them. It was a good thing to see, -but it also filled the heart with fear. He laughed and exulted when he -remembered how it was even quicker in its stroke than the leap of a -wolf.—But most of all the watchful circle feared the camp fire. They -could not rub the wood and strike the flame: in this he was master, -ruler and monarch of the earth! Cry-in-the-night might kill him in a -fair fight, but still he could not build a fire. The dreamer always felt -a great wave of exultation. - -One night he dreamed that the fire burned almost down, and the circle -drew close. He wakened from his doze and shouted at them none too soon. -And a strange, wild cry from his own lips wakened Hugh, in the sheep -camp of the twentieth century, from his dream. He had cried out in his -sleep,—a hoarse, wild, savage cry that left him curiously awed. And the -coyote that had crept close to the flank of the flock slipped quickly -back into the forest. - -Hugh got up, stood a moment in the gleam of the late September moon, -then piled more wood upon the fire. The circle of twin lights was a -reality to-night. The days of drought had brought ever more of the wild -hunters about his flock, and almost anywhere he looked he saw their -luminous eyes, two by two, as they waited in the darkness. He glanced -down—but a rifle, not a dagger of flint, lay at his side. He looked out -over the flock, instinctively counting up his markers. Most of the sheep -were asleep, but one—the greatest of them all—stood erect, with -lowered horns, as if on guard. It was Spot the yearling ram, and his -horns looked oddly large in the soft light of the moon. - -“Spot, old boy,” the man said, “I believe you’ve got memories too. I -believe you’ve been dreaming—just as I have.” - - - - - CHAPTER XX - - -Dreams, dreams! Spot, the young ram, waking or sleeping, never escaped -from them. They came to him through the long, still hours of night, they -disturbed his sleep in the mid-afternoon rest when the flock sought the -deep shade, he knew them even in the hours of grazing. They were so -plain, so real that they seemed more like memories,—events that had -transpired before he came to lead Crowson’s flock. - -Yet his damming was not the least in doubt. Crowson himself knew Spot’s -full record as far as his own immediate life was concerned. He had been -born in the lower foothills,—the first lamb of the season. And his -mother had died to give him birth. - -Such casualties do not happen often among the domestic sheep. There were -a few such losses each year, usually due to an unnatural delivery, but -in this case there was a simpler explanation. Little Spot was oversized; -in a remote way that Crowson could not quite identify, he differed in -outline from any other lamb in the flock. The same divergence could -still be noticed now as Spot reached his second autumn. - -“Good Lord,” Crowson had said, when he marked the lamb’s coloring and -size. “Here’s a little devil that would be worth watching if his ewe -were just alive to keep him fed. I’d like to see just what kind of a ram -he’d grow to be.” - -He supposed that Spot would die; a motherless lamb in western flocks -can’t be counted on to survive. But in this case Spot obviously had -other plans. Before the end of his first day he had attached -himself—with an instinct that was seemingly miraculous—to the largest, -strongest ewe in the flock, one whose own lamb had died. Crowson himself -fastened the skin of the dead lamb on his back until the ewe gave him -her breast. - -It was as if he already knew his destiny and needed full-feeding and -rich milk to attain it. Spot grew fast. And in the castration and -docking season little Spot was spared,—just to see what kind of a -white-rumped, miscolored, heavy-headed ram he would grow to be. - -And almost from the first day he had had those strange, haunting dreams. -Mostly they were thrilling, breath-taking, joyous dreams, but sometimes -they were simply nightmares. The earliest one of all, perhaps, concerned -some sort of a terrible enemy that always seemed to be menacing him from -above. It was something that could drop with the speed of a waterfall -leaping down a cliff, or the morning light chasing the shadows down a -snow-capped peak as the sun came up. Spot knew that it had cruel talons -that could lift him in the air and carry him to a fearful land of cold -and darkness whence he would never return. The sheep do not ordinarily -watch the skies—the range of their eyes is downward—and thus the only -way to mark Swift Wing’s approach was to see his shadow on the crags. -And once when the shadow of a lazy buzzard flicked across the meadow—a -sight unnoticed by the other lambs—Spot’s little heart choked with -terror, and he tried to squirm under the ewe’s body. - -Cliffs, waterfalls, snow-capped peaks! What did little Spot know of -them? He was born on the lower foothills, and from the highest camp -where Hugh drove the flock the peaks were still far aloft, glittering in -the sun. Yet Spot knew them. In his dreams he knew exactly how the -waters broke, gleamed, and roared as they dropped from ledge to ledge; -he knew the feel of the firm snow under his hoofs, the glory of the sun -from the topmost spire of the highest peak, the touch of the cold crags -as he lay in the sun. - -His dreams were ever so much more real to him than his realities: the -band of patient ewes, the firelight of the herder, the slow grazing over -the wide stretches of green grass. In fact, Spot put no trust in camp -fires and herders. The herder, he felt in the depths of his heart, -should be eyed with suspicion. This strange, forked breed was no -companion of his. He couldn’t get away from a feeling of strangeness and -unfamiliarity with the scenes of his birth, as if he had wandered away -from home and didn’t know the way back. He was lost and lonesome and -unhappy, and he had been cheated from some glorious heritage that was -rightly his. - -He couldn’t get used to the slow movements of the ewes and the other -lambs. His muscles seemed to itch and burn when he was idle. He wanted -to run, to dash up the rocky cliffs; and yet he dared not leave the -flock. The gregarious instinct among sheep is too well ingenerated for -that. Once weaned, he spent his surplus energies in running back and -forth across the front of the band, ever longing for the lost land from -which he had strayed. - -In his dreams he always left the meadows far behind him. Even the forest -itself was left too, and he was set free and joyful in a more familiar -land: a place of jagged cliffs and sliderock, narrow passes and steep -precipices, great rock crevices and snow-capped peaks. It was true that -some of his band accompanied him. But they were all taller, all -stronger, all active as himself. And a great blood-brother—whose word -was immutable law in the pass—was always in the lead. It seemed, dim -and deeply hidden from him, that he himself was ordained—when his full -strength was upon him—to lead that band in their wild adventures over -the cliffs and stretch his own irrevocable law over the ranges. But that -was far off. In his dreams he was merely one of the dark-colored band, -marked with white even as himself; and the leader had tremendous, -curling horns of which even Lurk-in-the-trail, the cougar, could rightly -be afraid. - -Such games they had in his dreams, such breath-taking adventures and -wild leapings from crevice to crevice, from ledge to ledge. Sometimes it -seemed to him that he would climb and climb, as a star climbs in the -sky, to the loftiest pinnacle of the highest peak from which the whole -mountain world would spread in glory below him, and the setting sun -would throw its red glow over him. The longing for his lost land was -with him every waking moment. He loved his dreams: his reality seemed -absent of all delight. He was always sorry to waken. Deep, insatiable -longings and vague unhappiness filled his days. - -It was a perfectly natural development that in his second year—even -although he had not yet reached full maturity—he should obtain the -leadership of the flock. The other sheep sensed his self-reliance even -though they could not share in it, and even the old ewes followed him -with entire simplicity and trust. He seemed to have had the advantage of -some stern sort of an education that they did not have, and almost -unaided by the herder he led them to the choicest feeding grounds. He -was brave when they were afraid; he sensed danger when they were blind -and deaf; and most of all he had the spirit of kings. But they could not -follow where he would have liked to lead them. And because of the -eternal instinct toward gregariousness, he had to stay back with them. -It would have been easy for him to whip past the dog, gaining quickly -the high passes where such beasts as Cry-in-the-night could scarcely -follow. But the others could not keep pace. - -The dreams were always real and lifelike, but one night in late -September they swept him with unutterable vividness. The flock had -bedded down at the highest camp in the range: Crowson’s holdings ended -in the fringe of timber immediately above them. And all at once he -leaped straight out of his dream into wakefulness. - -He was trembling all over with excitement; his blood simply racing in -his veins. The night throbbed, his heart swelled as if it would burst. -At first he only saw the moonlight, fragile and silvery, over the -sleeping sheep. He raised his head. - -One of the wilderness traits that even the domestic sheep have not -altogether lost is the ability to stand absolutely motionless until -human eyes get tired of watching. Not a hair twitched on the young ram. -It was such a posture as his followers had often seen in him when the -flock was menaced by some approaching beast of prey; yet Spot was not -thinking of enemies now. And all at once a wild flood of ecstasy passed -through his frame. - -Out of the darkness of the ridge certain living forms came stealing one -by one, as silently as stealing shadows. A wonderful and noble -monarch—to whom even the wolf made obeisance—was first in the -file,—just as Spot had known. Others, even smaller than himself, -brought up the rear. And then Spot knew the truth. - -He knew that his dream was coming true. - - - - - CHAPTER XXI - - -All the dreams by which Spot knew of his lost heritage were realities to -old Argali, leader of a band of wild mountain sheep, or bighorn, that -had their craggy home in the high ranges of the Upper Salmon Mountains. -The winged danger that fell from the clouds to menace the young lambs -was not a memory to him: it was just an unavoidable detail of his life. -Perhaps it was more familiar to the ewes, whose lambs were the lights of -their souls, but old Argali had become rather indifferent to it years -before. For the winged death was simply the great golden eagle who had -his eyrie on a high ledge. - -He had known in his own life the joys that Spot had dreamed about and -missed: the wild runs, the leaping from ledge to ledge, the rough games, -the glory of the sunset on the high peaks. In his own time he had stood -on the high pinnacles and let the last red glow of the sun fall over -him. He had known the strife, the danger, the exultation, and his flock -would follow him wherever he chose to go. - -There was no more magnificent creature in the whole mountain world than -he. To Hugh, who had never seen a mountain sheep, his coloring would -have recalled but one creature on earth,—Spot himself. He had massive -horns that could strike with resistless might, sturdy legs and little -clinging hoofs that could scale the face of a precipice. A lone wolf -wouldn’t have cared to meet old Argali on a narrow trail. Only Broken -Fang himself had prowess enough to conquer him in a fair fight,—and -Broken Fang usually hunted in the woods far, far below Argali’s range. - -But the bighorn ram had memories also; and it was because of them that -he took the narrow trail down into the valleys this mid-September night. -The wind—a soft little breath that had stolen up from the hills where -the flock fled—had brought him a message; and it carried him back to an -autumn night of two seasons before, recalling certain stirring events -that had occurred upon a distant mountain side. - -It was wholly possible that Bill Elkins, a herder who the following -spring had gone over to Fargo and his gang, could remember that night -also. But he had no real knowledge of the strange mountain drama that -had taken place. His only recollection of it concerned a long and weary -climb after a little band of strays that had wandered from the main band -of domestic sheep and which a wolf had chased far into the distant -mountains. - -He did not know of the dramatic meeting that had taken place on a -far-away crag that was the lower limit of Argali’s range. It was the -last days of the rut,—the season that was just now beginning. The old -ram had been down from his high places looking for salt, and at first he -had been just a little alarmed by the sight of the little band of -all-white ewes fleeing so madly toward him. But understanding had come -soon. He realized that these ewes were his own people,—cousins far -remote and yet females of his own breed. They were sheep, even as he -himself. Their wool was full of alien smells, they were awkward and slow -and helpless, their bodies were fat where they should have been trim, -yet they were his own kind. - -The fact that he had considerable of a harem already did not matter -here: for the old ram—like all of his brethren—was an incorrigible -polygamist. Were not the fall days almost done? It was the autumnal -madness, and a wilderness mating had come to pass before the moon had -set. - -And Spot had been the child of that union,—conceived in the far ranges -that were his native land. But the strong ewe that was his mother did -not follow her lord into his high trails, after all. Bill Elkins had -come, Argali and his band had fled, and by driving the runaway sheep -back to the flock the little bighorn—born the following spring—was to -be cheated of his heritage. - -All these memories swept the old flock leader as he came stealing -through the forest shadows in response to that stirring message in the -wind. He came out into the moonlit meadow; he lifted high his -magnificent horns. And the wilderness gods—kind at last to this man of -cities who had given his heart to the wilderness—wakened Hugh in time -to behold the sight. - -It was such a scene that the memory ever cherishes, a mystery and a -delight through all of life. In all that breadth of forest there was no -picture more wonderful, no forest drama that went more deeply into the -mysteries of the wild. He felt as if the mountains had opened their -secret heart to him at last. He scarcely moved in his blankets lest the -charm should break. - -He didn’t know why he was so awed. It was as if the centuries had rolled -back and had given him a glimpse of the young world,—when the holy -communion of men and nature still endured. He sensed the immutable -enforcement of great laws,—perhaps one instant’s half-darkened glimpse -of the whole, unfathomable scheme of existence. And he was moved to the -depths of his being by the sheer beauty and wonder of the scene. - -The moonlight was a miracle in itself. It enchanted the meadows, it -filled the open forest with gliding ghosts, it turned to snow the great, -sleeping flock. The brush thickets were a mystery, a darkness that -passed understanding. And at the edge of the forest stood the bighorns, -forms in marble, noble past all words. - -Yet it could endure but a moment more. Even now the great ram had begun -to grow suspicious. The firelight cast a faint red glamor, and Argali -eyed it with suspicion. There were unfamiliar smells in the air too: one -that remotely suggested Cry-in-the-night and the other that he had -experienced when Bill Elkins had come to drive back his ewes. He turned -silently, starting to slip away. - -But at that instant Spot—the yearling ram that had led the domestic -flock—leaped forward as a meteor leaps in the sky. He knew this breed -that had come down from the fastnesses. They were of his lost land, and -even now they were turning back to the crags of which he had dreamed. -Hugh saw the motion, gasped once in the depths of wonder, and sprang to -his feet. The dog barked and raced about the flank of the flock. - -Hugh cried out. Swept with wonder and tingling in every nerve, he -couldn’t suppress the utterance. He saw old Argali pause with lowered -horns as Spot raced toward him. His little flock stood statuesque for a -single instant, as if they were waiting for him to join them. These were -Spot’s people: in the moonlight there was no difference between them and -the other bighorn yearlings. Hugh understood now why Spot had differed -from the domestic sheep. And Shep raced—jealous as ever for the -integrity of the flock—to cut off Spot’s flight. - -And for the first time in his career with the sheep Hugh broke his -trust. His business, too, was to keep the flock together, to help the -dog round up the truants and the strays. Yet the promptings of his own -spirit bade otherwise. He had repatriated himself, he had come to his -lost land, and was such a right to be denied the bighorn that had led -the flock? Spot’s place was in the rough crags and the high trails, snow -sweep and precipice and the ruddy glow of sunset, not feeding with the -domestic sheep. He knew that Alice would understand. - -“Come back, Shep,” he called into the stillness. The dog turned, -hesitated, then, faithful servant that he was, came trotting back. Spot -overtook the flock and the forest closed behind him. The bighorn ram had -come into his heritage. - - - - - CHAPTER XXII - - -José Mertos, when he came at Fargo’s bidding, looked exactly the same as -always. He seemed to have partaken of the changeless quality of the -desert where he was born. His lips were thin, his face impassive, his -dark eyes somber as ever. Fargo himself, however, had undergone certain -transformations. He was not quite so boastful as usual, nor so arrogant. -He looked as if some especially effective medicine had been administered -to him. It was plain, however, that the dose had not been entirely to -his liking. There were little angry glowings in his eyes that seemed -never entirely to fade out. - -Anger had always come quickly to Fargo, but it isn’t good for the spirit -to have it remain indefinitely. It cuts deep lines in the face and fills -the eyeballs with ugly little blood vessels, and it makes the hands -shake and the heart burn. It also swells the little sacks under the -eyes, a thing that is never pleasant to see. It was plain that certain -events had recently occurred that Fargo had not yet forgotten, but which -had incited a strange hunger within himself that must be satiated with -something quite different from bread. And as the days glided past the -more fierce the hunger became. - -It was true that he remembered only Hugh’s first blow,—that which had -stretched him flat upon his back. The feel of the earth throughout one’s -length has a tremendous medicinal value in itself to some men, and in -others it wakens a madness that is considerably worse than that which -comes upon Broken Fang at the fall of darkness. And there had been at -least two other blows when he was stretched out unconscious. One of them -had temporarily closed his eye. The other had left a purple bruise about -his lips. This was enough in itself. Men did not strike Landy Fargo down -and have many months to boast of it. At least that was what he told -himself time after time, in the long nights that he sat alone. The -meeting with Hugh in which his horse had been returned to him had been -scarcely less odious. - -Fargo remembered how Hugh—with his bleeding arm—had motioned for him -to go, and how at the same time his hard, bright eyes had been watching -for any offensive motion on the part of Fargo. But courage to attack -simply would not come to him. And in the morning light, burning with -hatred and passion, he had ridden back to his home. - -The affair in regard to the flocks was no longer merely a business -proposition. It had its personal side now. It seemed to him that its -completion was the only desire he had left. He hated the browsing sheep, -he hated Crowson and Crowson’s daughter, but most of all he hated Hugh. -There was the man who had defeated all his plans. It was Hugh’s fists -that had knocked him to the earth and that had lashed into his face as -he lay unconscious. Night after night, week after week, he had -sat—savage as one of his own hounds—staring into the fire. The flames -had leaped: and he knew that some time in their lurid glow they would -show him his course of action. His only wish was to make payment. - -The time in which he might strike was almost up. October—when the -detachment of forest rangers would take over the district and protect -such lawful industries as Crowson’s—was almost at hand. The thought -seemed to drive him insane. And one night, when September was almost -done, inspiration came to him. - -A cowman had come in, complaining of the drought. The streams where his -cattle fed were drying up. “Never seen the woods so dry in all my days,” -the man had said. “Just like tinder. And already most of the cattle have -crossed over Eagle Ridge into the Bear Canyon country.” - -It was enough. He had given Fargo his hint. Certain orders had been -dispatched: to drive all the remaining herds into the same region,—a -district far from Crowson’s range in Smoky Land. And then he had sent -for José. - -The Mexican was the one man on whom Fargo felt he might rely. José had -no ridiculous limits as to conduct, no notch of brutality and crime -above which he would not go. The cowboys who worked for him, however, -weren’t of the same metal. They were faithful enough in a good -open-and-shut fight, fair warfare between the cattlemen and sheepmen. -They were willing to take any decent risk, and their rancor against the -“woollies” was bitter enough for general purposes. Partly it was a -matter of mob psychology, partly because they thought their own jobs and -prospects depended upon the range being kept open for the cattle herds. -But these cowmen were rather inclined to play too fair; and cold and -premeditated murder was not, among them, being done. The deadly desert -man, however, had no such compunctions. He had been the logical man to -send for after that last talk with Dan the herder. And he was the -logical man now. - -Fargo had already drawn his maps. In his own broken handwriting he -indicated the various ranges and the larger streams that flowed between -them. Fargo knew the passes of Smoky Land. And the two men went over -them with singular care as to detail, with infinite patience such as -they had never given to any of their lesser projects. They discussed the -directions of the prevailing winds, the “lay” of the canyons, even the -location of the most impassable thickets. It took the whole night and -many glasses of burning liquor to perfect their plans. - -“It must start, you see, in the Bear Canyon country,” Fargo said at -last. “And nothing in the world that I see—considering how long it will -take to send word—can stop it.” - -José agreed. “Just you and I do the work?” he asked. - -“Yes. The others can’t be trusted. But remember—I’m paying you the -limit—a whole year’s pay for a night’s work. A thousand dollars—don’t -forget.” - -José’s eyes showed that he had not forgotten. “It’ll take fast horses,” -he said. “We don’t want to get caught ourselves.” - -“No danger of that; but there’ll be plenty of riding to do, as you say. -It’s a straight-out course—and to-morrow night we go.” - -To-morrow night! To Hugh and Alice, in the distant sheep camp, it meant -almost the end of Fargo’s menace. Another day and another night -thereafter, and September would be gone: the forest rangers would come -riding into Smoky Land to establish their headquarters. The days of -lawlessness would be over. And the man and the girl were exultant as two -children as the fire’s glow spread its glamor over them. - -“We’re going to win, Hugh,” she told him. “They’ve had weeks to strike, -and they haven’t struck, and I think we’re safe. And it means so much.” - -But Hugh shook his head. “It’s true that they haven’t struck,” he -agreed, “and yet I can’t believe we’re safe. You didn’t see Fargo’s face -as he turned to go that night. I don’t think he could forget. But if -they just hold off a few days more——” - -If he had owned the flocks himself, Hugh couldn’t have been happier at -the thoughts of victory. There had been nothing easy or soft about the -project of the sheep. He had given his own nerve and sinew, he had -fought a tireless battle, and nothing in his life had ever mattered so -much. It was the first real test and undertaking of his manhood: -besides, it was all for Alice. Victory was at hand; and surely fate -would not cheat them now. They had already started the flocks downward, -following one of the tributaries of Silver Creek where there was still -enough water for the flock. Early in October he would take them to a -certain well-watered pasture on the lower slopes. In the meantime the -rangers would come to his aid. - -Suddenly he reached out and took her little, hard, brown hand in his. It -yielded to his palm, and just for an instant he touched it to his cheek. -Yet he didn’t look into her eyes. He was fearful—to the depths of his -being—of the expression that might be read in them. - -“Alice, it’s been a good fight,” he said simply. “And ever since the -world began—when a good fight has been fought—it’s the soldier’s right -to make certain requests—that he never had the right or the courage to -make before.” - -She nodded, and slowly he released her hand. - -“No matter if he’s just a humble peasant,” the man went on, “if he’s -given all that he has to give, he has a right to make those requests. -And although the queen laughs in scorn, at least she can’t resent -them—or order him beheaded.” - -“I don’t think she could be scornful—if the peasant has -given—everything he has.” - -“I don’t think it would be quite fair either—although, of course, he -might ask for things that she couldn’t grant. And that, perhaps, will be -the way it is with me.” - -She looked up, a strange mist and glory in her eyes. “What do you mean, -Hugh?” - -He heard the crackle of the fire, the stir of the wind behind her, the -soft complaint of the sheep, stirring in their sleep, but most of all he -discerned the music, the unutterable loveliness in her tones. “I mean -that when this fight is won—I’m going to put my petitions to the -queen.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXIII - - -In the still midday, desperate and half-mad with hunger, Broken Fang, -the cougar, came stealing along a narrow pass in the high ranges of -Smoky Land. He hadn’t had a great deal of success with the mountain -creatures. The previous day he had caught a little pika on the -sliderock; once a mountain grouse had failed to detect him lying like a -tawny piece of crag beside a pass, but the great bighorn themselves had -mostly been able to keep out of his way. - -In the first place he was under the great disadvantage of fighting in -the enemy’s country. The cougars are never quite at home in the high -mountains. They are essentially a lowland people, and they have no love -for the fields of glittering snow. They need trees in which to hide, -brush thickets to wait in till the deer graze near by. The narrow -passes, the rugged precipices, and the high knife-edge trails were the -natural habitats of the wild sheep, but Broken Fang liked better -walking. Besides, he didn’t know the country. - -If any one supposes that animals do not have to learn the geographical -nature of a hunting ground before they are really adept in it, it is -wholly plain that he has never followed the tracks of a pack of strange -wolves in a new land. By knowing all the trails, the bighorn were able -to avoid the traps that Broken Fang so laboriously set. More than once, -after a weary half-day’s wait, he would find to his chagrin that the -sure-footed sheep had been watching him—chuckling no doubt among -themselves—from a nearby promontory. They knew how to see him before he -saw them, and in a fair chase he was simply out of the running. If his -luck didn’t change soon, it seemed very likely that the buzzards would -have a large heap of poorly upholstered bones to pick clean. - -But to-night—as September days rolled to their mellow end—he had fresh -hopes. For the wind had come and brought him good news. The flock was -feeding on a little grass slope just in front. - -Broken Fang felt that it was almost his last chance, and he intended to -make the most of it. But desperate as he was, he kept his hunting -cunning. This would indicate that certain of the beasts have even better -nerve control than their superiors, human beings,—for a starving man -would have been unlikely to go about his hunting with the same stealth -and caution. He crept slowly forward, his nerves singing wild melodies -within him. And stealing from above, he soon caught sight of the flock. - -Some of them were feeding; Argali, Spot, and one or two of the other -young rams were lying down. Broken Fang’s glaring eyes encompassed the -whole scene, and with the swiftness and accuracy of a general, he mapped -out his plan of attack. No naturalist explains by what swift avenues of -intelligence he made his plans. Animals cannot reason. Instinct alone is -severely taxed to account for all the wiles and astuteness of the wild -creatures. But if this were instinct, it served him even better than -intelligence. - -It was true that his prey was out of leaping range of his trail. Yet for -all that his heart throbbed with rapture. A jagged cliff approached -within a few feet of them from the opposite side, and one détour would -bring him close enough to strike. Best of all, he could leap at them -from above. - -The wind was right, the animals were not suspecting danger. He crept -slowly about to the shelter of the opposite pass, then began to creep -stealthily toward the sheep. - -He didn’t see how he could miss, particularly the yearling ram that lay -nearest the cliff. He was a newcomer in the band, and he wouldn’t be so -wary as the others. It was a simple matter of stealing quietly over a -ledge of rock, where there were no dry twigs to break beneath his feet, -then to spring down with outstretched talons and open jaws. Already he -was within a hundred feet. Their pungent smell was a madness in his -nerves. Nearer—ever nearer—and now they were just below him. He had -sunk so low against the crag that he looked more like a great tawny -serpent than a feline. His tail twitched at its very tip as he crept -on,—a few feet more. The whole realm was hung with that tense silence -of the high mountains, a stillness wherein not even a wind whispers and -the heart pounds like a drum in the breast. - -This was not a coyote to be frightened away by an attitude of defense. -If once the great puma launched forth in his spring, no power on earth -could save the young ram. It seemed as if Spot were to lose his heritage -already. - -Broken Fang knew this crag. He had made a kill of one of its little -people a day or two before. He had always had only scorn for these -lesser folk,—the scurrying gophers, the timid rabbits, and the furry -pikas in the rocks. Yet at that instant he was to receive a taste of -their might. A shrill shriek suddenly split open the silence,—just in -front of his head. - -After all it was only a miniature sound, really little more than a -high-pitched squeak. Yet in that unfathomable silence it cracked like a -rifle. In one second of thought Broken Fang would have identified the -sound, would have kept his poise, and a moment later would have sprung -with fatal power into the flock of sheep. Yet that second of thought did -not come in time. The impulse to his muscles, the sudden explosion of -his tightly drawn nerves had the speed of light itself. - -It was only a little pika—a rock rabbit, as the mountaineers call -them,—such as the puma had killed the day before. It would have been -surpassing poetic justice for it to have been the mate of the small, -gray creature that had died so recently in his talons, squealing for the -mother of his litter to come back to him. And his sharp squeal was just -enough, and no more, to put high explosives under the sheep hunt. - -The cougar’s nerves had been pitched to the highest key, and the -muscular reaction to that shrill sound could not be restrained. His paw -lashed out: the little rodent leaped from beneath it. And at the same -instant he snarled. - -Few living creatures can strike in silence. One of them is the mighty -elephant, most intellectual and, of course, majestic of all the beasts. -This jungle king can lunge out with a resistless force and still keep -the tremendous silence of the sphinx. But the stallion screams when he -strikes with his lashing hoofs. The elk bellows, and even the venerable, -dignified old bear has a savage growl at his lips as he slashes his -terrible paws at his foe. The pent-up passions do not find sufficient -escape in the blow itself, and a vocal utterance usually accompanies it. -As Broken Fang struck at the rodent, his short, terrible snarl rang -through the still air. - -The sheep needed no further warning. They sprang forward as if the sound -had been a great hand that hurled them, without an instant’s delay. -Broken Fang caught himself then, snarled and sprang among them; but he -was a mere fraction of an instant too late. - -The flock was divided—Argali and some of the ewes and immature rams -circled about and dashed up the rocks at one side. The others—Spot and -two young ewes—were cut off from this avenue of escape, and headed down -the steep wall of the mountain. The way of the bighorn is the climbing -trail—to flee to the heights where the ordinary run of hunters cannot -follow. But Spot was obliged to take another course. - -Broken Fang leaped after him. At first he ran only in anger and frenzy, -for his instincts told him plainly and surely that it is usually the -height of folly for a cougar to attempt to overtake the hoofed creatures -in an open chase. But he had been cheated too many times; and his -self-control had fallen further from him than the bottom of the gorge. -The sheep raced on lightly, easily, and Broken Fang filled the canyons -with his snarls. - -But in a moment of vain pursuit a certain knowledge came to him. These -sheep were headed down into his own country,—into the land of forest -and thicket where he could hunt to an advantage. The thing to do was to -continue the chase, prevent them from circling back, and who knows what -glory might be his in the still, tree-clad ridges below him. - - * * * * * - -The chase of Spot and his bighorn ewes down into the greenwood was not -the only stir of life in the midday silence of Smoky Land. At the same -hour the hoofbeats of a running horse carried far through the dusky -thickets of a certain great ridge to the east,—a place that divided -Crowson’s range from the old Bear Canyon country. A man rode lightly in -the saddle: and his dark skin revealed him as an alien in this northern -land. José Mertos was riding on orders, and he came swiftly. There was -work for him to-day. - -He seemed to know just what to do. From time to time he scanned the -horizon as if searching for a landmark. Then he turned off the trail -through the heavy timber. The forest constantly grew more brushy, his -advance ever more difficult. And at last he came to the mouth of a -great, still canyon. - -Very swiftly he went to work. And if it had not been for the curious -intentness of his eyes, an unexplainable nervousness in his motions, one -would have thought that he was merely making a camp. He collected a -little pile of dry bark and pushed a few brown pine needles under it. -Then he broke off some of the brittle branches of the underbrush. These -were piled on too; and a match flashed in his hand. - -Just a moment he stood, waiting until the flame—a yellow hungry little -tongue that a slap of the hand could extinguish—crept like a serpent -into the little heap of dead bark. He saw it grow and climb till, with a -sudden leap, it sprang into the dry branches that he had broken off. And -from there it was only one leap to the brittle brush of the shrubbery of -the thicket. - -José smiled then, a little, dim curling of his thin lips over his -gleaming teeth. And he did not smile often. An event had to be very -cruel and hurt some one very badly to waken mirth in him. And now there -was no answering echo of simple pleasure in his dark eyes. Rather the -fire that he had ignited had crept into them also: the pupils were oddly -contracted and bright as points of steel. He seemed somewhat breathless, -too, stirred to the depths with a madness unknown even to the wild -creatures. - -There is no more wholesome emotion on earth than the love for the open -fire. It was the first friend, and its comradeship and protection are -remembered from the immeasurable past. And there is no madness that is -so devastating and terrible as that of incendiarism. José was not, -ordinarily, a man given to excesses. But the fire madness was upon him -now. - -A fiendish light was in his eyes, a ghastly drawing distorted his -features. His motions were less careful and patient. He laughed harshly, -then swung on to his horse. He headed up the canyon, swooped off his -horse’s back, and lighted another fire. The crackle of the first -conflagration had already grown to a menacing roar behind him. - -A quarter of a mile farther he lighted the third fire, and then the -fourth. It was not to be just a sporadic brush fire, with open lanes -between. It was to be a veritable wall of flame. It was the forest fire -in its full sense, sweeping swiftly and immutably over hill and valley, -through thicket and open forest, and leaving only ugly sticks and black -ashes in its wake. The flame pounced upon the trees. The dusky branches -caught, the red demon mounted higher, and already the spaces between his -first few starting fires were closing up. - -But still José did not cease. For five miles across the canyons he -rode—in a great crescent—stopping ever to light his fires. And when -that ride was done, he turned his mount back through Smoky Land, toward -a certain canyon that was a gateway out of the region to high mountains -where the fire could not go. He had other work to do. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIV - - -The sheep were taking their midday rest, and Hugh and Alice exchanged -certain confidences as they kept watch over them, sitting side by side -on a dead log. Always, it seemed to them, they had more to tell each -other than time would possibly permit. There was only one thing, it -seemed to Hugh, that they didn’t talk of: his real station in life -before he came to Smoky Land. He had never told her of his wealth, of -the Old Colonel sitting in the club. For once in his life his -credentials were his own manhood and his own personality, and he wanted -no others. It was the test, and no irrelevant matters must enter in. - -And all at once he paused in the middle of a sentence, staring curiously -at the ground. The shadow of their figures in the sunlight was no longer -to be seen. - -“Good Lord, Alice,” he exclaimed. “What’s happened to the sun?” - -They both looked up at once. And they found it without difficulty. But -it was not that potent orb that the long summer days had taught them to -respect. It was a feeble sun, a mere red disk in the strange, gray-blue -sky. - -“Clouds?” Hugh asked. A queer little stir went over his body. It was as -if instinct—not yet dead but only blunted in human beings—had spoken -within his being, giving him knowledge that his conscious self had not -yet grasped. He was angry with himself for the tone. He had tried to -keep all urgency out of it, and yet it seemed so breathless, so charged -with dread. - -“No,” the girl answered clearly. “It’s smoke.” - -They were silent a breath. Both of them were testing the direction of -the wind. Both of them knew at the same instant that their whole world -depended largely upon this. It was not blowing hard at present, yet -there was wind enough to sweep the fire through the tree-tops. And, more -than anything, they remembered the parched and inflammable condition of -the woods and brush. - -Both of them discovered the truth the same instant. “We’re right in its -track,” Hugh said. - -They waited a long time, hardly speaking. The sky slowly thickened with -smoke. They saw it rising, in great billowing clouds, toward Bear -Canyon. Listening closely, they heard—at the vague frontier of -hearing—the distant crackle of the fire. - -All doubt was past. The time for delay was spent. That age-old terror of -the wilderness, the forest fire, was sweeping toward them. It was yet -distant and they had no inkling of its true origin. And as they -listened, the first of the vanguard of fleeing wild creatures—a -full-grown buck with magnificent horns and soft eyes—swept past them at -top speed. - -“You see, Hugh, don’t you?” she said rather quietly. “The whole valley -seems to be afire, and we’ve got to run before it. There’s no way to -hold it off——” - -“But won’t the rangers see the smoke and come?” - -“They couldn’t come in time. Besides, the high range hides it from the -settlements. Unless a gale starts up—or accidents happen—we can drive -the sheep out before it. As yet there’s no need to leave the sheep.” - -“Of course not,” Hugh agreed. “We can’t leave the sheep.” - -The girl looked up, a wonderful luster in her dark eyes. She was a -mountain girl, inured to the terror of the flaming forest, and it was -natural that she should retain perfect self-control. But she found -herself wondering at this tenderfoot, this man of cities. There is no -greater test of the spirit than that slow, remorseless advance of the -wall of flame. The sight calls forth dreadful memories from the -labyrinthal depths of the germ plasm; it chokes up the heart with cold -blood and distills a poison in the nerves, yet he seemed as free from -panic as she herself. And he was also the eternal shepherd. He would not -leave the sheep. - -“We pass the camp on the walk and I’ll get the horses,” she explained -quickly. “It will be hard to control the flock if the fire gets much -nearer. And I’ll try to take time to snatch a little food to keep us -going through the night.” - -“And your father’s lease—it’s all lost?” - -“No. The grass will come up after the winter rains. If it were just a -top fire the underbrush would be even heavier.” She turned to the -shepherd dog, who now stood gazing, as if entranced, toward the -billowing wall of smoke behind them. “Get ’em up, Shep, old boy. We’ve -got to start.” - -The dog obeyed; they began to drive the flocks in the direction of the -foothills. It was hard work for all three to control them. In the first -place they missed the guidance of Spot,—gone some days before to join -his people. Besides, they were all uneasy and at the very verge of panic -from the increasing sound of the fire behind them. - -They reached the camp, and Alice left her place to secure the horses. -One of them, her own riding bay, came quickly to her hand, but the pack -horses were not to be seen. The only explanation was that while her own -animal, true to his trust, had remained for his rider to come, the -others—terrorized by the fire—had fled in the direction of the -foothills. They were hobbled, surely, but by striking down with both -fore feet at once, horses learn to make good time even with hobbles. It -was not a great disaster, yet it cut down—to an appreciable -degree—their chances of saving the flock. It was more difficult for -them to keep the flock closely bunched. And both of them knew, and -neither of them spoke of it, that in case of the “accidents” that all -mountaineers learn—some time in their lives—to expect, it hurt their -own chances of getting out alive. Because it impeded his ease of motion, -Hugh left his rifle in camp, depending on the pistol at his belt for any -emergencies that might arise. - -The long afternoon drew to twilight. The fire slowly gained. It came -with a rush up the ridges, a veritable charge that drove the wild beasts -before it, but it crept like a snail as it descended. The crackle was no -longer just a whisper in the air to be drowned out by the slightest -sound. It had swollen until it filled the forest, and it had begun to -have a strange, roaring quality that fire fighters learn to dread. It -meant but one thing: an all-consuming forest and brush fire in which -great sheets of flame spring from tree to tree, wherein no living thing -may survive. Already a pronounced heat was in the air. The twilight did -not fall soft and cool as usual. Worst of all, the wind had begun to -increase. - -They didn’t pause to eat. The girl shared with him the little food she -had snatched from the tent—a handful of jerked venison and a few pieces -of bread—and they ate it on the march. As the dog worked near her, she -slipped scraps of the dried meat into his mouth. This was no time to -neglect Shep. The success of their flight depended on his strength and -skill. - -The shadows lengthened, the sun declined and set, and an ominous glare -spread over the sky behind them. And the impression began to grow on -both of them that the sheep were constantly more hard to control. They -kept dipping into the little glens and draws on each side of their -valley; they bunched uneasily, then spread out into little scurrying -groups. Their sense of unity seemed lost, and more than once only a -quick word, a sharp command, a swift dash about the flanks of the flock -kept them from a panic. They did not keep the even gait by which sheep -usually move. Sometimes they ran and sometimes stopped, milling. - -“I don’t understand,” Alice told Hugh, in an instant when they were -within speaking range of each other. “Sheep usually know what to do -better than their herders. And it looks as if they’d run straight away -from the fire.” - -It was true. Even the domestic sheep have not lost all their powers of -instinct, and every herder knows that this inner knowledge is often more -to be relied upon than his own intelligence. The flocks usually know -what is best for them. And many a time a wise and experienced herder -will come racing his flocks down from the higher levels just in time to -escape a blizzard—without a word of forecast from the weather man. He -has simply followed the sheep who in turn have obeyed their own -instincts. And Hugh, too, found himself wondering why the flocks seemed -so reluctant to flee down into the valley. It was true that their course -led them to a narrow pass, bound on each side by steep cliffs and -impassable walls of brush, but the flock could pass through with ease. -It looked to him as if the sheep did not themselves know where they -wished to go, but were undeniably uneasy and vacillating. The thought -haunted Hugh, returning again and again, and filling him with a vague -discomfort and dread. - -There would be light to travel by to-night. The glare in the sky behind -them ever brightened, and the eyes kept seeking it with an irresistible -apprehension. It cast a red glow over the whole forest world. The warm -color deepened as the night encroached upon the twilight, and all -semblance of reality faded from the land. It was as if it had been -dipped in red wine. The great trees were incarnadine, the canyons swam -in red vapor, even the sheep had red wool. No longer was this the green -and lovely mountain realm they had known. Rather it was an inferno of -mythology, an underworld lighted by sulphurous fires. - -From time to time, through the long afternoon, they beheld the march of -the wild creatures. All manner of the forest people passed them, -sometimes in little groups, sometimes one by one. Often the deer sped -by, seemingly almost flying in the long tree-lanes; once a coyote ran -yapping, his fur singed by the fire, and once a great bull elk stalked -soberly past. He seemed to give no thought to the man that walked behind -the sheep,—the same form that had terrorized him that summer day beside -the spring. Once a porcupine rattled his quills on a nearby hillside, -and far away the brush crinkled and popped as a cougar passed through. -And now—in the early night—a magnificent grizzly—that ancient and -mystic nobleman of the forest—ambled past him at an awkward run. - -But he was no longer gray. The red radiance was upon him, too. Hugh -watched him, but for once the sheep paid him no heed. The terror behind -them left no room for their usual fears. And the bear slowly reduced his -pace to a walk and then stopped altogether. - -Hugh couldn’t have told why he kept his eyes upon the old bear with such -entranced attention. For an instant he forgot his task, the dreadful -beauty of the fire-lighted forest, and even Alice, riding back and forth -on her horse. He seemed to know that from this shaggy forest creature he -was to receive a sign that must not be ignored or missed. “The wild folk -show the way,” is one of the oldest maxims of the forest, and Hugh had -learned his lesson. He was the shepherd, but also he was the forester. -And the simple faith, the humbleness, the sure and inner knowledge of -the Indian had come to him at last. - -The bear seemed distressed. For a moment he stood quite still, then -turned his great head this way and that. And then he turned back, -running at top speed, toward the fire. - -Even before his senses made verification, Hugh knew beyond all question -what the sign betokened. While he took one breath he stood strangely -silent and bowed, the lines of his face graven deep, his eyes darkened -with shadows. Then he straightened. The eyes cleared and looked out -straight. The lips set, the muscles seemed to gather and bunch beneath -his brown skin,—as if for some crucial test. - -Strength was upon him. The dog circled by, seemed to sense it, and -paused for an instant at his feet. Hugh listened. The air was charged -full with the roar of the fire behind, but there was a new sound too. -And far ahead a gray haze lay over the trees. - -He signaled to the girl, then motioned toward it. He watched her face, -and a great weight came upon his heart when he read in her expression -the fact that she also had discerned the truth. - -“We can’t go on,” he said simply. “There’s a fire in front, too.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXV - - -In the glow of the fire, and speaking just loud enough to be heard above -its roar, Alice and Hugh made swift appraisal of their situation. It was -not easy to be calm, to hold the body in subjugation to the brain in -that death valley, between two walls of flame. Yet the calm strength of -the wilderness itself seemed to be in their thews. - -“Wait, wait,” the girl whispered. “Every second is precious—but give me -time to think. I know this country, and I’ve got to remember how the -canyons lie.” - -Hugh stood silent, and endless hours seemed to go by before the girl had -marshalled all her memories of the geographical nature of Smoky Land. In -reality, her thoughts came quickly and surely. - -“There’s only one way,” she told him at last, “and that’s only a chance. -It depends on how far the fire has advanced behind us. We might ride out -through the old Dark Canyon, back from the camp at Two Pines.” - -“Alice, the fire has already swept it——” - -“I don’t think so. The canyon is deep, and the fire hasn’t got down into -it. We must run for it—and if we get through to safety we can ride to a -’phone on the old Lost River road. Then we can ’phone to the ranger -station, and they may be able to rush men in time to save some of the -forest.” - -“But that wouldn’t save the flock——” - -“No. We can’t think of that, Hugh—any more. We’ve done what we could. -We’ll try to get the dog to follow us, and save him——” - -“Then don’t wait any longer,” he urged her. “And kill the horse if need -be.” His hands, a single instant, groped toward hers. “Good-by——” - -“Good-by?” she questioned; and for the first time a sob caught at her -throat. “What do you mean? Get up behind me. It’s the only chance——” - -Her eyes leaped to his face,—for the sight of a little weakness, a -little sign of breaking strength. It was pale, even under the angry glow -of the fire, but it seemed graven of white stone. “No,” he answered -clearly. “No, Alice—just one of us must go——” - -“Then I’ll stay too. I won’t go alone.” - -“Listen!” His voice, ringing out in command above the roar of the -flames, held her and silenced her. “You’re wasting precious seconds. The -only way you can help is to ride—fast as the horse can run—and try to -send rangers to make a last stand in the canyon, and maybe help me out -with the sheep. The horse couldn’t make good time with both of us; it -would just mean that both of us would die, caught between those two -fires. One of us has got to stay here and try the best he can to head -the sheep back in the direction that we’ve come—to follow you through -the canyon. The wind might change—the fire might not be able to work -down at once to the canyon floor—and we might all get through.” - -“There’s no hope of that. It means death for you—that’s all it means. -And there’s plenty of time for both of us if you’d just leave the sheep. -Oh, please——” - -She looked down in desperate appeal, and she knew her answer when she -found a strange little ghost of a smile at his white lips. “But a good -herder—doesn’t leave his sheep,” he told her soberly. The tone was -perfectly simple, wholly sincere, utterly free from emotionalism or -self-pity. Yet it thrilled and moved her to the depths of her being. - -She understood. At last she knew this man who stood before her. Perhaps -with this knowledge there came an understanding of the whole great race -of men,—the breed that has waged war with the powers of the wilderness, -who have driven back the beast and plowed the fields, established a -protectorate over the wild creatures, and followed the flocks at the -dusky edge of the forest. No longer was she the employer and he the -servant. She was simply the woman, sick at heart with fear for the man -she loved. And he was the man: one of a breed that has ever been willing -to die for an ideal. To her, the sheep no longer mattered. She only knew -that the wall of fire was creeping toward this man, this tall, -straight-eyed companion that held her heart. Yet she knew in the depths -of her own heart that she could not turn him from his resolve, that she -could not make him break his trust. She had longed to find strength in -him, the strength of the mountains and the pines, the basic strength -that has made men the rulers of the earth, and now she had found -it,—only to have it break her heart. - -The captain who stayed with his ship when his children at his hearth -wept for his return, the soldier in his trench for an ideal that few -women, in their heart of hearts, can really understand, and this -shepherd, willing to stand the test of fire to save his flocks were -simply three of one breed. Nor did they greatly differ from the whole -race of men from which they sprung. They were only obeying the immutable -laws of their own beings. They could not break trust with themselves. - -They didn’t know why. It was as blind faith as that which will make a -mother—a woman useful to the earth—give her life to save her crying -infant—not through love, not through a sense of duty, but just from the -inexorable command of the soul. Common sense and the voice of reason go -unheard: and only instinct, blind and cruel, remains. No human being -would blame Hugh for leaving his flock to the terror of the flame. Yet -he was a man, one of the Breed, and he had no power to disobey the -promptings of his own spirit. - -Yet out of her tearful eyes, Alice saw in Hugh’s stand the heaven-sent -impulse that has brought the world up from the darkness. She understood -old wars, the martyrdom of peoples. Vision had come to her, and -throughout the world she saw men’s works and heard women’s tears. She -could see the Viking, leaving the white arms of his woman and following -western stars; the frontiersman, striking out from his beloved hearth to -seek new dominions; the blood-stained paths of armies; the builder, -stretching his bridges across roaring rivers and his railroads into -uncharted lands. Through the long roll of the ages she saw the shepherd -on the rugged hills, alone and wondering and full of thoughts, watching -his sheep. - -The man he had been—the waster and the egotist—was wholly gone now. -Only the shepherd remained. Hugh saw himself as he really was,—just a -pawn by which Destiny works out vast and invisible schemes of its own. -His life didn’t matter here. His love for this girl beside him pulled at -his heart, but the laws within him could not be disobeyed. He was only -the shepherd, and here—a milling, panic-stricken band—were his sheep. - -“Way round,” he ordered the dog, and the girl helped him keep the -control of the animals until he had started to turn them. And just for a -moment he took her hands, two little, hard brown hands that were clasped -about his heart. - -“Good-by, Alice,” he said quietly. “Don’t blame me for staying—and -forgive me. All my life has been wasted, and now I’ve got a chance to -pay the debt. You don’t know what it means——” - -But yet she understood this personal reason too. His manhood was at the -test; and even if he should fall, at last, victim to those hungry -flames, his life would have been vindicated—beyond all the powers of -Destiny to accuse him. He lifted her hands to his lips and kissed them -again and again. - -“Maybe there won’t be time to put my petitions to the queen,” he told -her soberly. “But I want you to know what they were to be. I love you, -Alice. Never doubt it—never forget it. And it’s my right—to tell you -at last.” - -“And I love you, Hugh,” she answered clearly. He heard her without -exultation, rather only with a great and inward peace, as if this were -his ordained fate, his destiny fulfilled. He swung toward her, their -lips met. And she rode away toward the advancing wall of flame. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVI - - -Landy Fargo was not of a mind to have his plan go wrong, so he had given -particular care to its details. He didn’t want to take even the -slightest chance of failure. Not probabilities alone mattered at a time -like this: he must consider the remotest possibilities also. And he had -not forgotten the pass through the Dark Canyon. - -“They may try to drive the sheep out that way,” he had said, “and if -they get there before eight o’clock, they may make it. By eight at most, -I should think, the fire’ll get into it—and then of course they’re -blocked—penned in tight. And we don’t want to forget the ’phone line on -the old Lost River road—we don’t want ’em to get to that and send for -help until every pass is blocked. If they leave the sheep and try to -ride out, they’ll take that way—and that’s why I don’t want you to fire -it earlier in a special trip. I want you to puncture the horse and the -man. You can do it—I’ve seen you shoot too many times to think you -can’t. All you have to do is wait on the trail. The plan’s only half -done if that tenderfoot gets out alive—and that’s the surest way to -prevent it, and a way there won’t be no doubt about later. And if you -want to spare the girl, all right—but keep her there until the pass is -closed.” - -Nothing could be plainer. José waited on the trail. The fire madness -still branded—like fire itself—his face; and he found an evil -exultation in watching the slow sweep of the flames behind him. But he -didn’t intend to wait too long. He didn’t want to take any chances on -being trapped himself. The way of the forest fire is the way of the -wind, and no man can always predict accurately where it will go. -Besides, he was just at the mouth of the canyon and had a long ride -himself to safety. - -The Mexican found nothing to his displeasure in the work. The pay was -good, and there had been a certain, savage rapture in aiding in the -destruction of the forest and its people. But the work before him now -promised best of all. It was just straight shooting and clean killing, -and he had been well educated for such work as this. He had known the -deserts, the hot battles of his own land; his eyes were true and his -hand steady. Best of all, the interview with the girl afforded pleasing -conjectures. José had not often operated among women. His eyes were -lurid with a fire of different source from the red glamor that was over -all the land. - -It was eight o’clock, and the fire was only a little behind time. Fargo -had estimated with really astonishing accuracy. Already the flames -played on the ridges at each side, the tall trees caught, flashed, -swayed and fell, and the fiery wall was slowly working down into the -canyon’s depths. Once there, no passing could be made. He couldn’t wait -much longer. Fargo would have to forego the detailed report of how Hugh -lurched and fell from the saddle at the rifle report. José had to think -of his own safety. - -And at that instant he flattened in the trail. The butt-plate of his -rifle nestled against his shoulder. Of course it might be just the -footfall of the running elk, fleeing in terror before the fire, but this -possibility died quickly. Before ever the rider came in sight, he -recognized the sound as the hoofbeats of a racing horse. Thus he was to -have his pleasure, after all. - -No deer, quietly grazing toward the thicket where the puma lay crouched, -no blind gopher, venturing forth from his burrow in the icy gaze of a -rattler stretched still and lifeless in the moonlight, ever sped so -straight and unsuspecting into an ambush as Alice, riding toward the -shadowed mouth of the canyon. A little gleam of hope had returned to -her, for she saw that the fire advanced but slowly from the ridge above -the canyon, and that she could not only ride to safety but that there -was some hope, at least, of Hugh driving his flocks through in time. -True, a long ride still remained before her, but even the longest chance -was worth praying for. And even as the prayers rose, sweet and -appealing, from her lips, José saw her speeding horse through his rifle -sights. - -His finger was perfectly steady as he pressed back against the trigger. -Except for one little telltale curl of his lips, his dark face was -impassive. The rifle cracked, a little dart of flame that was scarcely -distinguishable in the eerie and terrible glow of the fire spat from the -muzzle and the horse shot forward with a strange effect of diving into -the dead pine needles. There was no need to shoot twice. The noble heart -of the animal was pierced through with the wicked lead. He had done his -last service—willingly and well—and what need had he of a more -eloquent epitaph? - -Alice was fairly hurled through the air, and it seemed an incredible -thing that human flesh should endure such a fall and yet retain life. -She shot down into a heavy clump of brush a few feet in front of the -head of the dead horse. No second rider followed. Fargo’s enemy had -evidently stayed with his sheep. And for a moment José thought the rest -of his own anticipated pleasure would be lacking too: the girl lay very -still and curiously huddled in the dry brush. - -José sped forward, but in a moment he saw that she was not seriously -hurt. The thicket had broken the force of her fall, and although she was -unconscious, deep scratches at her throat and arms were her only visible -wounds. Once more a flood of dark conjectures returned to him. It would -be pleasant, he thought, to have a short chat with her when she -wakened,—a grim, exciting little talk at the threshold of the flame. -The meeting possessed all kinds of possibilities. - -At that instant he saw the pistol that swung at her belt, and he -remembered Fargo’s word to take no chances. He took hold of her -shoulders: and he liked the touch of her warm flesh in his hands. Very -softly he drew her to a young tree, letting her half-recline with her -shoulders against its trunk. And at the first glance it would have -seemed that he was only trying to make her comfortable. The real truth -could only be determined when he drew her hands back around the slender -trunk and tied them fast. - - * * * * * - -Hugh had not heard the shot that had killed the horse. The distance was -not far and in the silent summer nights he would have heard the sharp -sound with ease, but to-night the forest was full of the roar of the -fire. And perhaps his senses had already lost some of their acuteness. -It seemed to him that a curious stupor was stealing over him, a sadness -and a despair that he could not fight off. - -In the first place he was terribly fatigued. As the moments had passed, -one by one with a dreadful slowness that only men in the peril of death -may know, the chances for his escape seemed ever less. The fire steadily -encroached upon him, the heat increased, the red glow over the -wilderness brightened until the world no longer seemed that into which -he was born. And now the sheep had begun to “balk,” refusing to be -driven. It was a development that a more experienced herder might have -expected and dreaded, and it always means that the spirit of the flock -is broken. The animals refused to move, standing like forms in stone -with legs braced and heads down, and it was a sign that the dread spirit -of the wilderness was about to claim its own. When the sheep despair of -saving themselves, the herder knows that the end is very near indeed. - -They would run forward a little way as the dog barked at their heels, -but would halt at once. Hugh could not urge them on at all. The fire -swept ever nearer. There seemed no use of further effort now: he -couldn’t save the flock. And the crudest thing of all was that the shot -had gone unheard,—and he could not even turn his strength to the aid of -Alice. - -And just for an instant Hugh shook off his weight of despair to wonder -at the dog. The animal was standing motionless—almost like a bird dog -at the point—one foot lifted, ears alert, staring away into the -thickets whither Alice had gone. He seemed to have forgotten the sheep. -The firelight bathed him, finding a curious reflection in the garnet -glare in his eyes. He swung about to eye the sheep and as quickly -returned to his rapt contemplation of the forest in front of the flock. -And to Hugh it might have seemed that a grim and savage battle was being -waged in the dim depths of the faithful creature’s soul. He seemed to be -torn between two great impulses. One of them was his ancient trust,—to -stay and guard the sheep. The other would lead him into the forest -ahead. - -He was growling now, with a savagery that Hugh had never seen in him -before. He turned to his master with a look that was to haunt the man -even in those wild moments following, in which he would make his last -effort to drive the flock on to safety,—an expression of wistful and -unutterable appeal. And then he raced away—just as on a summer day he -had sped when one of the lambs had been menaced by Running Feet—into -the deep thickets beyond. - -A strange and tragic blankness came into Hugh’s face. The lips seemed to -waver, the firm set of the jaw weakened,—just for an instant. Despair -was upon him. Seemingly the forest had beaten him down and broken him at -last. Blow after blow, disaster upon disaster, until the spirit broke -beneath them. - -“So you’ve deserted me, old Shep,” he said simply. “So you’re fleeing to -save yourself.” - -For was he not taking the same path that Alice had taken, heading for -the deep canyon where perhaps the fire had not yet crept and the pass -was open? The blow went deep to Hugh. He was down at last to the -elements of life—with death, a stern reality, even now stretching -dreadful arms toward him—and it is not good in such moments to have an -ancient and beloved trust betrayed. The fight was lost: no honor -remained except to go down with the ship. - -But Hugh hadn’t understood. A pin-prick through the air, Shep had heard -the crack of José’s rifle. This in itself would not have been enough to -call him from his post of duty with the flocks. But through the air came -even clearer messages: mysterious vibrations such as only the lower -creatures of the earth—closer to the heart of things than their proud -masters—could receive. No man may tell in what language those messages -were sent, by what impulse they came tingling through the still forest -to him, and by what law within himself he made his answer. But it was -always the way of the great shepherd dog to hasten to the aid of those -of his flock who were in peril. Perhaps in his heart of hearts this -slim, tall mistress of his—one whose word must never be disobeyed—was -also just one of his wards, in whose service his life was merely a pawn. -But in the secret ways of the wilderness he knew of her distress, and -had sped to give help. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVII - - -While José Mertos had been riding, Landy Fargo had been busy, too. It -wasn’t enough just to order things done, and later to learn of their -accomplishment. In the hand, more than the brain, lies the gratification -of vengeance; and Fargo didn’t intend to miss this satisfaction. Riding -swiftly, he had lighted the circle of fires in front of the sheep flock. - -Exultation was upon him when he saw the red, greedy flames creeping into -the trees. It was his long-awaited moment. By no conceivable -circumstances could the flock and its shepherd escape. He had prepared -for every emergency, blockaded every pass. - -The blows that Hugh had dealt him were paid for at last. His dog-pack -been laid low, in a still, ugly, curious heap—but there would be other -silent ones before this night was done. And there would be less of -beauty in these still forms than in those of his slain pets. Everything -was square at last. His brutal lips leered and his eyes burned. - -When his last fire was ignited, he stopped for a moment of exultation. -The red terror was sweeping into the trees, faster than he had ever -dreamed. Even now his enemies were enclosed in a prison of fiery walls -from which they never could escape. “I’ve got you,” he cried in triumph. -“You thought you could trample on me and get away with it, but I’ve -shown you.” He lifted his powerful hand. “I’ve crushed you—like that.” - -His brutal fingers closed. His fiery eyes glowed with self-worship. -“With this hand,” he exulted, in half-insane rapture. “This is the hand -that crushed you—no one else’s. You thought you could stand against it, -but it’s smashed you at last.” - -He waited a little while more, fascinated by the lightning advance of -the fire. The brush and trees were particularly heavy in this glade—and -the red tongues swept forward with startling rapidity. He hadn’t much -time to linger further. It was always best to play safe—and take no -chances on this demon of fire. Yet he stayed, thrilled and fascinated by -his handiwork. - -All at once a crackle behind him caused him to glance quickly over his -shoulder. He saw to his terror that a little arm of the fire had spread -here, too. He whirled his horse, then with a savage oath lashed down -with his quirt. - -Yet plenty of time remained, by riding swiftly, to save himself. There -was no need for fear. He would go straight to his home, and from its -windows he could watch the progress of the fire. Yet the crackle behind -him got on his nerves, and he struck his horse again. - -And this second blow was a serious mistake. The horse was already -running at a swift pace down the narrow trail. There is a limit to the -speed a horse can run with safety in the Idaho mountains, and that limit -was already reached. Beyond that point comes only panic and blind -frenzy. The horse leaped forward to the wildest pace it knew. - -The sweat leaped from Fargo’s dark brow, and slowly his self-mastery -came back to him. There was no need of this wild flight. He had plenty -of time. He started to check the horse. - -But at that instant the sinister forces of the wild—always lurking in -ambush for such as Fargo—saw their chance. And the forest-demons do not -need mighty weapons. Their agents are the Little Things, the covert -trivialities that few men notice. In this case the resistless force that -overwhelmed him was only a furry, half-blind creature of the dust—a -rodent such as ordinarily Fargo would press his heel upon and crush. - -The rodent had been enlarging his winter home, and he had dug away some -of the earth from under the trail. The horse was running too wildly to -be careful, his hoof broke through the little shelf of dirt, and he -tripped and hurled headlong. - -To the rodent, the disaster meant further hours of toil—digging -tirelessly till his rooms were clean again. Through some incredible -chance—perhaps because the great god Manitou had saved him for further -work—the horse was uninjured, and soon regained his feet. But Fargo was -hurled to the earth as the horse fell, and he only knew a great darkness -that transcended and smothered him. - -As if they were trying to restore his nervous forces for some great -ordeal, the forest gods granted him a full hour of peaceful, restful -slumber. But it was doubtful mercy. At the end of that hour they -laughed—a sound not greatly different from the crackle of a great fire, -and began to call him into consciousness. - -First they brought evil dreams, and Fargo started and murmured in his -sleep, tossing a little on his bed of pine needles. His look of triumph -was gone from his brutal features now. Instead, there was a curious -drawing and strain—and for all the sudden heat of the early night, cold -drops on his brow. Still his eyes wouldn’t open. He fought hard, and his -quivering body rustled the dead leaves. - -Curious streaks of light slashed before his eyeballs now—all colors, -and they filled him with horror. But slowly remembrance returned to him. -He had set the fire, and now it was time to ride away. He mustn’t get -caught in his own trap. He rallied all the powers of his spirit and -fought for consciousness. - -And the forest-demons decided to grant it to him. It was not in accord -with their plans that he should lie insensible throughout all the -entertainment they had provided for him. So they not only permitted him -to waken, but as a final favor they bestowed upon him a -super-consciousness—a fine keying of every nerve and an added -sensitiveness to his flesh. It was their final beneficence, and they -gave it freely. Fargo opened his starting eyes. - -His first thought was of flight, and therefore of his horse. But the -animal, knowing of old the fear of fire, had sped on down the trail. -Fargo was alone. He had to run for it, then, before it was too -late. . . . He sat up, shuddering. - -It occurred to him then that the fall had bewildered him as to his -directions. At the first glance he beheld the fire, but it was in front -of him instead of behind where he had left it. It was curious to be so -turned around—and he looked over his shoulder, intending to mark the -best trail to safety. And then Landy Fargo’s throat convulsed and his -breath came out in a scream. - -The fiery wall was behind him, too, leaping toward him with a deadly and -terrible ferocity. The trees flamed like great torches, swayed and fell; -the brush was a wall of fire. The conflagration had made a great half -circle, just as he had planned, converging to the left of him. - -But to his right the fiery barrier was nearest of all. He didn’t have to -turn to know that. Its crackle was just in his ear. And then he leaped -to his feet with a wild, blasphemous cry. - -A little peninsula of fire had crept out from the burning brush to his -right, and had paused—in grim speculation—beside something hard and -strong that it found resting in the pine needles. It was Fargo’s -hand—the hand in which he had exulted such a little time before, and -which had set the flame. As if in gratitude, the red tongue licked at -its brown skin. - -Full knowledge came to Fargo then. All about him raged the fire, -pressing ever closer. He was helpless—powerless to aid himself as the -Shropshire lamb that he had thrown, so many weeks ago, among his hounds. -His own handiwork had turned against him, and the vengeance of the -wilderness was complete. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVIII - - -The face before her seemed only part of her dark dreams as Alice wakened -from her unconsciousness. She hoped in an instant to waken into the -world of reality she had always known, not this abyss with its red glare -and creeping tongues of flame. She couldn’t understand why her arms felt -so numb and why they didn’t answer the command of her nerves. - -No moment of Alice’s life had ever been more fearful, more fraught with -despair, than that in which her full consciousness returned to her. The -fire’s glow was more lurid and terrifying than ever. The flame itself -was nearer: already it had crept almost to the bottom of the glen. The -way was still open, but a few moments would see it closed. Yet all these -things were apart from her and infinitely remote. The only reality in -her life, now that her dreams were done, was the intent face of her -captor. - -The red radiance was upon it, and all semblance of humanity seemed gone. -Rather it seemed the face of some dreadful inmate of an Inferno. The -glow was in his dark eyes too: they were too close to hers for her to -mistake this fact. They smouldered, like the dead trees where the flame -had swept. Her throat convulsed, and a high, far-carrying, piercing -scream shuddered out above the roar of the fire. - -But it was cut off as from beneath a blade. She had summoned all the -strength of her will and spirit. After all, it was only wasted strength -to scream. There were none to hear her in these fire-swept forests. When -the pack of hounds had been about her, she had still retained a dim and -flickering hope that Hugh would come to her aid, but she had no such -hope now. She knew that stern, unbending man who watched the sheep. All -her tears, all her prayers could never move him: he would linger, still -at his post, till the insatiable tongues of fire licked at his breast. -She was only the woman, but Hugh watched the sheep! Besides, the thing -to do was to show this dark man before her that even if this was the -moment of her death she would show no fear. - -And this was no easy thing. Only because she was of the mountains, -because the spirit that dwells in the forest, the rugged places, the -wilderness primeval dwelt also in her, was she able to effect it at all. - -“Don’t be afraid,” the man was saying. “You ain’t goin’ to be hurt. I’m -goin’ to let you go in plenty of time. In the first place, I’ve got to -get out the same way myself.” - -She could believe this, at least. She saw that he kept close watch of -the fire as it crept down toward the floor of the canyon. - -Her eyes looked straight into his. Yet the fear crept at her heart—for -if indeed he intended to let her go, none but the most dreadful reason -occurred to her why she should be tied. And in truth, the spirit of -Landy Fargo was far distant now. José knew perfectly that before she -could reach a ’phone and men be secured to battle at this last stand -against the fire, the hungry little tongues would have already -encompassed the canyon. He only knew that he was shivering strangely, -and that he was not yet ready to let her go. “Untie my hands,” she -commanded. - -“I will—quick enough. I just thought we’d talk a while first. It ain’t -often I get to talk to a pretty girl like you——” - -There in the path of the advancing flame the words were ineffably -strange and terrible to the girl,—like some demoniac torture of a -shadow world. “And you’re not going to have a chance now,” she told him -clearly. “If you want to leave me here in the track of the fire, it’s in -your power to do it—but it won’t make me bend to you, or plead with -you, or treat you any different than I’ve ever treated you.” - -The man stiffened. She saw the gleam of his teeth through his thin lips. -“Don’t be too sure. I was told to let you go, but nothin’s goin’ to -happen to me if I don’t. Your position ain’t what it used to be, Alice, -and maybe I’m a different kind of man than you’re used to. I come from a -different race. And maybe you’d better try to be a little more polite.” - -“And I can only tell you this,” she went on as if she had not heard. “If -you do leave me here, if you put one indignity to me above what you’ve -already put by tying me up and making me listen to your talk, you’ll pay -for it. I’m just as sure of that as I am that I’m alive.” - -And the man might have listened in vain for any waver, any note of doubt -in her tone. She spoke as if in infallible prophecy. - -“Who’s goin’ to do it?” the man demanded. “Who’s goin’ to find out?” - -“It will be found out. You’ll pay, whether I live or not. It -seems—almost as if vengeance is coming to you soon—right away. I can’t -tell you how I know. I only tell you to let me go. - -“You’re from the desert, José, and not the mountains, and maybe the -desert lets debts go unpaid,” she went on, in a clear free tone of -inspiration. “But I know these forests. It seems to me I know them -now—better than I ever did before. One more insult—and I tell you -you’ll pay.” - -But José laughed. Just a little, harsh note of scorn fell from his lips. -He was a mountain man, but in his passion and frenzy his wilderness -knowledge had deserted him. He did not heed her words. And he bent to -press his lips to hers. - -And at that instant the thicket behind them parted as a terrible avenger -leaped through. It was not his first leap in vengeance. Many times, in -his years of service, he had sprung with magnificent ferocity at the -throat of a wolf that menaced the white sheep in his care. But never -before had he sprung so true, with such shattering power and dreadful -fury. White fangs that could carry a lamb as tenderly as the arms of a -shepherdess flashed in the firelight. - -Just as she had said, the wilderness had spoken. One of the guardians of -the flock had swept to her aid. Because he was in defense of his own, -obeying the laws of his inmost being, his blow had the might not only of -the wilderness but of that high power that has waged war with the -wilderness, tamed its passions, subjugated its peoples. No man may say -if love for this tall shepherdess was a factor too. Without its impulse, -the lesser creatures do not often unleash their fury against man. Shep -the dog had come because it was his duty and his destiny, and he sprang -like a tigress through the air. - -The great shepherd dog struck like a wolf, aiming straight for the -throat. José had no time to ward off the blow. His back was to the -thicket. He didn’t even see it come. Gleaming fangs tore once at his -dark flesh. - -Then for an instant there was only the red fire and the red sky, with -the wilderness bathed in their glow between. The dog had dropped -silently to his four feet and was crouched, waiting to see if another -blow were needed. The girl’s face seemed bereft of all life. And that -which had been a man was only a huddled heap in the pine needles, dark -and strange and impotent as the dust. Red fire and red sky, and now a -scarlet fountain, playing softly with ever decreasing impulses, on the -parched earth. - -Shep had avenged the insult. And in paying the debt the pair of hands -that might have untied the bonds that held Alice in the path of the fire -were stilled. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIX - - -Almost in a breath Shep’s ferocity passed away. He eyed the still form -for a sign of life, but quickly the fierce yellow lights died from his -eyes. The avenger, the remorseless slayer was gone, and just the -shepherd, rare comrade and fellow guardian of the flocks, remained. His -tail wagged in friendship, the stiff hairs began to lie down at the -animal’s shoulders. And he looked up in inarticulate appeal to the -girl’s face. - -“It’s no use, old boy,” the girl told him. “I’m tied fast and I can’t go -with you. And—yes—the fire is coming.” - -She told the truth. It had still a long way to go before it encompassed -the floor of the draw, but it was steadily, remorselessly drawing -nearer. The dog whined softly. - -The girl shook her head. “I can’t go, old boy,” she repeated. “We’re -lost—you and I and your master, too. You’ve helped us all you can.” - -The animal seemed to understand. A great, brooding sorrow came into his -intelligent eyes. Here was the third of them that had given his all for -the sheep, one who had stayed for his work when his swift legs and sure -instincts could have saved him from the fire; and when all is said and -done, mostly for the same reason that Hugh had stayed with his -sheep,—because it was the inner law of the breed from which he sprung. -He was the shepherd dog, and he had fulfilled his obligation even to the -death. Many of his breed before him had done as much. Many would come -after—humble, unlauded—and obey to the inevitable end the same laws. -The high schemes of the Universe were dimly before her eyes. - -The dog barked again, then encircled the tree and licked softly at her -hands. It occurred to the girl that she might try to make her position -plain to the dog, urging him to bring his master to her aid. Yet she -couldn’t gesture with her pinioned arms, and the understanding of Shep -did not go out to words alone. She couldn’t write a note to fasten to -the dog’s collar. “Help me, Shep,” she pleaded. “Go and get help.” The -dog whined again, and she felt his warm tongue at her palm. “Can you -hear me, Shep? Can’t you understand?” - -As if in obedience, the dog turned and sped away. But in this last -fearful hour she could not make herself accept even this shadow of a -hope. Besides, Hugh was probably already dead or hemmed in by the two -converging crescents of fire. She found herself wishing that the dog had -stayed. He would be company for her in that last awful moment just -before the shadow would drop down for good and all. She found herself -dreaming that if he had only stayed, perhaps his kindly fangs would -play—just one little time—at her throat, saving her from the final -agony. He had always understood so well: perhaps he would have helped -her cheat those stealing tongues of red that ever crept nearer. She -couldn’t reach the pistol at her waist to cheat them herself. At least, -she might have partaken of Shep’s own great spirit of strength. - -She was alone and afraid at the dark frontier of death. There was no -help, no mercy from the flames: the shadows hovered close. She wished -she had stayed with Hugh. Death and its agony would not seem so fearful -then, in the shelter of his arms. Now his kiss was cold upon her lips; -but with their love to sustain them they could have faced bravely their -remorseless doom. Smoke drifted around her. Most of it was carried up -and away, yet perhaps it would bring merciful unconsciousness before the -flames should creep up to her. - - * * * * * - -Running at top speed, Shep circled around the flock to Hugh’s side. The -man was standing up to receive him. He had seen his speeding form a long -way off through the dim clouds of smoke: the only creature that moved in -the whole breadth of the forest. The sheep themselves were making no -further effort to flee from the flames. Far or near, the wall had -encircled them; and they stood as if stricken dead, heads close to the -ground. - -“Great God, Shep!” the man cried. “Have you come back to see it through -with me?” - -And a light that had no kinship with the dreadful glare of the fire -flashed to the man’s face. Shep was returning to his flocks. He had kept -faith, after all. He was only a dog, yet to Hugh his fidelity was a -clear, bright shaft of light in an impenetrable darkness. No scales of -earth could measure the difference that it made to him. - -Yet Shep did not come to nestle in his strong arms. Memories were -flashing over him, and he remembered a morning, months ago, when one of -his wards had been in danger and he himself had been powerless to save. -A lamb had fallen into the torrent, and his master had gone quickly to -his aid. When he was within a few feet of Hugh he paused, barking, then -ran a little way back. - -“What is it, Shep?” the man asked. “What do you want me to do?” - -The dog barked louder, running forward again and pausing to see if his -master followed. Hugh gazed at him with widening eyes. At first it did -not even occur to him that Alice was in distress. He supposed that she -had fled to safety long since. Yet the dog was frenzied in his -eagerness, just as in times past when some beast of prey had menaced one -of the sheep. And Hugh remembered that never once had the dog urged him -forward without cause. - -“What is it, old man?” he cried. “There’s no way out. Let’s stay with -the sheep—and see it through.” - -But still the animal entreated. The fire raged and roared, burning -slowly on the descents, leaping with incredible fury as it mounted the -ridges, advancing steadily down the floor of the valley. East, west, -south and north,—everywhere a wall of flame. There was no way out. Yet -he could not doubt the urgency of this appeal. And all at once the -instinct came to answer it. - -Perhaps it was because of his abiding faith in the animal’s -intelligence, perhaps just that in this final hour he knew that any -miracle might come to pass. He sprang up, and he didn’t try to keep up -with the dog at a walking pace. He ran from the first step. - -The dead logs across the trail, the hills and steeps, the narrow passes -between the walls of brush did not check his pace at all. The air surged -into his lungs in great sobs, his muscles ached and burned as if the -flames had already reached them. He knew—by token of a clear voice -within himself—that he was running for a _life_—one that was very dear -to him and must be saved at all cost. - - * * * * * - -Her arms still pinioned, Alice sat waiting for the end. It was hard to -be brave in the ever-nearing presence of the flames. If there had been a -cheering word from one she loved, one touch of a friendly hand, the -moments would not seem so terrible and long. But she was helpless and -alone, and all hope of aid was gone. - -The way out of the fire trap was irremediably closed. True, there was a -territory of large extent behind her not yet burned over, and she knew -that if Hugh and his flock still lived they were in that space. In all -directions raged the fire, and now the flames had stretched their -terrible barrier clear across the little canyon in which she was a -prisoner. Even if by some miracle her arms should be freed she could not -escape. No human being could pass that flaming wall in front and yet -live. Because she was in the deepest part of the canyon, its shadowed -mouth where it met the broader canyon of Silver Creek, the fire had not -yet burned down to her, but by no thousandth chance could this last -little space of forest be spared. A few moments or many: the issue was -unmistakable in the end. If the fire continued its present slow advance, -perhaps the fevered cycle of her blood might be repeated many times; but -at any instant a falling pine top from the flaming forest above might -catch the tree against which she was bound and bring the end. There was -only one thing left to pray for, now. There was still the fond wish that -by some miracle the passing might come swiftly, that her soul might wing -its way swift and free, not struggling from a pain-racked body, out of -this dreadful land of glaring sky and glaring fire. Perhaps the out -trail might be level and easy, after all. - -Her thoughts no longer held quite true. Strange fancies swept her; and -back of them was the clear, rational, unconfused voice of hope that -perhaps these portended an unconsciousness that would spare her the -cruelty of the end. The night must be far advanced by now, she thought. -Uncounted centuries had come and dragged away since Hugh had pressed his -lips to hers and she had ridden into the greenwood. The heat of the fire -above her grew steadily fiercer, and she saw with a strange sorrow that -the little mountain flowers—hardy, lovely things that had weathered the -drought—were withered and dying. The smoke poured in billowing storms -across the mouth of the canyon. The bark of the tree felt scorching hot -against her bare arms. And still the frightful glare of the sky lighted -up, as if in dreadful enchantment, the little space of unburned forest -where she was confined. - -And now the jaws of the flame were closing behind her. Only a little -island was left, and any instant the faint night wind would blow the red -tongues into the thicket beside her. It was the end. Perhaps the -smoke—rarely unbearably dense, rangers know, even at the very edge of -the forest fire—might bring unconsciousness after all. She felt herself -drifting. - -Sobbing words were at her lips. “Be merciful,” she pleaded to the Powers -of whom mercy is the eternal spirit. “Don’t make it last any longer! Let -me go to sleep——” Yet no ear, it seemed to her, could hear her above -the frightful roar of the fire. And even her arms were bound so that she -could not stretch them up in supplication. - -And it was as if her prayer had been heard. At least she was not to -endure the end in loneliness. A sharp, high bark pierced through the -angry crackle and roar of the fire, and Shep leaped to her side. Only a -narrow path remained between the two converging walls of flame behind -her: a dreadful place of blasting heat and blinding smoke and darting -flame tongues, yet the dog had sprung through like a winged creature. -Behind him, still brave and strong and enduring, came his master. - -He also sprang bravely through the closing barrier of flame. A great -spirit of undying strength was on him, and the red arms reached for him -in vain. He swung to her side, a dim, strange figure that at first -seemed only a figment of fancy born in her prayers. He did not speak to -her. Only strangled sobs were at his lips. His white-bladed hunting -knife flashed at her bonds. - -He snatched off his coat, wrapping it in one motion about her head and -shoulders. He knew how those fire tongues he had just passed through -would receive her tresses. And then she felt muscular arms go around -her. As lightly and as strongly as if on the wings of Death itself he -lifted her to his breast. He sprang forward with all his strength. And -the three of them fought their way back—through the gates of peril—to -the last remaining island in the sea of flame. - - - - - CHAPTER XXX - - -It was more than a reprieve,—the little hour that they would have -together before their own island was submerged. They were three -shepherds, and in their united strength they were not so fearful of such -stars as would be borne into their sky. Here was comradeship instead of -loneliness, courage instead of terror, and the deathless joy of love -instead of despair. - -They went, the three of them, back to the motionless flock. In the first -place the sheep were fairly in the center of the space of unburned -forest—a brushy hollow where the smoke was least—moving just enough to -keep halfway between the steadily advancing fire up-wind and the -slow-creeping backfire in the opposite direction. Besides, they were -shepherds, and in their own hearts they felt a blind but undeniable -satisfaction in being with the flocks at the end. - -José and his employer had done their work well. In any direction their -victims chose to look the forest was swept with fire. And in the ruby -glare the resistless march of the flames was a strange and awful thing -to watch. Sweeping fast up the ridges, creeping with almost -imperceptible progress down the glades, leaping with indescribable -ferocity through the green branches of the ancient trees, slashing -through a brush wall and crossing in one pounce the streams and the -trails. This last hour was one of weird and terrible beauty, at least. -The three of them stood beside the silent flocks, quietly waiting for -their fate. - -There was no use in trying to drive the sheep. There was no place for -them to go. True, to the right and left of the flock the flame-wall was -slightly more distant than to the front and rear, but it was as -impassable one place as another. Besides, the sheep themselves refused -to be driven. They too were quietly waiting for the end. - -“One more hour,” Hugh whispered. His arms went about her, silently and -strongly, as if to shelter her. “It can’t be over an hour more. And then -we go—some place—together.” - -The girl shivered in his arms. “I wish it would come soon. It hurts—to -breathe.” - -It was so. The heated air tortured the lungs. There was none of the cool -delight that usually precedes the hour of dawn in the mountain realms. -Above them the pines stood in their dark watch: silent, somber, noble -sentries of the wilderness. But for all their venerable years and their -great strength, they could not stand against the enemy that menaced them -now. The red tongues would sweep through them, they would shudder and -fall, and only black trunks, dismal and ugly, would remain when the red -scourge had passed. - -The girl suddenly turned entreating eyes to his. There was only the dark -shadow of fear in them now, none of the mad panic they had had in the -nearby canyon. “Listen, Hugh,” she whispered, just in his ear. “I have -one thing to ask—the hardest thing of all.” - -Hugh flinched—ever so slightly—and an immeasurable dread came into his -face. “Tell me what it is. I think I know.” - -“It’s going to be hard because—you love me. And you do, don’t you? I -can’t be brave if you don’t. I want to keep remembering it——” - -He nodded, gravely. No words were needed to assure her. This strong -shepherd could only speak truth at a time like this. - -“But we’re mountain people—and you know it will be the best. And it’s -because you love me—that I know you’ll do it for me. To spare me—and -then yourself. I’d have done it back there if my hands hadn’t been -tied.” - -He understood. Her hand stole around him and touched the butt of his -pistol. For a long breath he waged an inward battle, and he called on -all the powers of his spirit to give him strength. But it was true that -they were of the mountains; and they saw issues straight. This was no -hour for emotionalism and folly. The flames swept nearer; but with one -press of his finger on the revolver trigger he could save this girl he -loved the final horror of a fiery death. One shock, one sweep through -the darkness, and then peace: not the slow agony of the enfolding -flames. He could not do better service. He was the shepherd still. - -“Yes,” he promised. “I’ll do it—at the end of the hour. And the dog -too.” - -It was only fair to include the dog. He was one of the triumvirate. He -had kept faith, he had stood the test. The moments were born, passed and -died. The tall trees caught, flamed, and fell. The smoke clouds -gathered, enfolded the three of them, and passed on. - -They were nearly blind from the wood smoke, the heat had become almost -too much for living flesh to bear. There was no need of waiting longer, -perhaps to fall into unconsciousness from the smoke and then to waken to -feel the flames licking at the flesh. The wall of fire was still nearly -a mile distant to the west, but its march was swift. Hugh’s terror had -gone, and he found himself longing for such cool peace as would follow -the third revolver shot. - -The girl’s lips pressed his. She knew the progress of his thoughts. -“There’s no use of waiting any longer,” she said unwaveringly. “Let me -be the first.” - -“The dog first,” he told her. He couldn’t get away from an -all-engrossing desire to keep her with him to the end, and to spring out -of life with his hands in hers. Perhaps it would be kinder to spare her -the sight of Shep’s death—yet his spirit lacked the strength. - -“The dog first,” the girl repeated. “And don’t—wait—any more.” - -The dog’s appealing eyes were upon them. Their own spirit—that of -immortality itself which only men seem to possess—had pervaded him, and -the dark eyes seemed unafraid. To the beasts, death is a darkness and a -fear; but Shep knew that these two masters would have only mercy and -kindness for him. Hugh’s hand reached back for the revolver. - -But the forest gods had not written that Shep should die so soon. The -drama of the flaming forest was not yet over. An interlude strange and -startling past all words; three figures—vivid in outline and bathed in -the fire’s glow—came speeding toward them from the thickets to the -east. A gasp of wonder fell from Hugh’s lips as he beheld them. - -Two of the forms were unfamiliar, but one of them was known and beloved -of old. Hugh couldn’t mistake the trim figure, the curved undeveloped -horns of the first of the three. No break appeared in the fiery wall -toward the east, yet Spot—his own unmistakable form and his wool -unsinged—ran steadily toward them in plain sight of all three. It was -as if he had returned from the shadow world, a ghostly savior in the -hour when his old followers hovered at the gulf of death. A great wave -of hope swept the man’s frame. - -But in an instant he saw the explanation. Spot and his ewes had not come -unaccompanied. A tawny form loped swiftly behind them. It was Broken -Fang, the monarch of the cougars, and he had simply driven the three -bighorn down into his own hunting ground at last. - -“If there’s a way in, there must be a way out,” Hugh spoke sharply. -“Stand still, so the cougar’ll come in range.” - -Suddenly he seemed to know that in some invisible and secret way that he -could not trace, the whole issue of life and death had centered down to -his war with Broken Fang. He couldn’t have told why. Dimly he knew that -after days and hours of desperate pursuit, following still the ancient -herd-instinct and perhaps impelled by the memories of certain crises, -when he had run with the domestic sheep, Spot had come here for -protection from the tawny creature that threatened him. After that -desperate foe was conquered, he would pay his debt to Hugh,—not through -conscious impulse but by the mandates of some great law of the -wilderness and life that no man may name or read. Hugh drew his -revolver, but its bullet was not for Shep. And the three of them -crouched low, waiting for the cat to come in range. - -He gave no thought to the fact that a pistol is usually a futile weapon -indeed against such a mighty, strong-lived animal as a great cougar. He -knew by the animal’s frantic leaps that he was desperate with hunger, -stark mad from the long chase that had never seemed to end, and -frenzied, perhaps, by the fire. The felines do not often chase their -game in open pursuit; but in his madness he had forgotten his hunting -cunning. He saw the motionless flock and came at a charge. - -Spot hurried around the flank of the flock and, watching the cougar’s -advance, Hugh was wholly blind to the fact that every one of those three -thousand sheep lifted their lowered heads. The cougar came almost -straight toward him, as fast as an African lion in the charge. He had -emerged from the brush only a little more than a hundred yards distant, -and half of the space between had already been crossed. But still Hugh -held his fire. He knew that only at a point-blank range would the little -pistol bullet stop that wild charge. - -And the calm, sure strength of the wilderness itself came down and -sustained him during the stress and fury of the attack. His face was -impassive, his hands steady as bars of steel, his eyes were narrow and -bright and clear. He raised the revolver. He glanced coolly down its -sights. And he fired for the first time when the great cat was hardly -forty feet away. - -The bullet sped true, inflicting a mortal wound, and the great beast -recoiled. But the shocking power of the lead was not enough to destroy -wholly the mighty engine of life in Broken Fang’s body. He snarled once -in fury and sprang forward again. But it was not the hunting charge now. -It was the blind, savage rush of a wounded animal, ready to fight to the -death. - -Again Hugh shot with amazing accuracy, and again the cat went down. But -the impetus of his fury could not be overcome. He leaped forward, and -the third bullet was a complete miss. The fourth, following quickly upon -it, inflicted a flesh wound but halted him not at all. And he crashed -down once more at the fifth. - -But even then the vital, surging life in the creature still lingered. He -came creeping forward, fangs gleaming, long talons bared. An instant -more Hugh waited, standing straight and motionless. Only one bullet -remained, and no risks must be taken with that. Shep—who had rushed -about the flock at Spot’s approach—came charging to his master’s aid. - -One long second dragged away, with a curious effect of silence and -immeasurable suspense. It was such a picture that might never be effaced -from the memory: the suddenly awakened sheep, the approaching forest -fire, the motionless figures, the snarling, creeping feline, and the red -glow as of the abyss over all. The creature paused—scarcely ten feet -distant—and gathered himself for a final spring. Hugh fired his last -bullet. - -There was one strange instant more in which the bunched muscles relaxed -and the great body wilted in the pine needles. The dog leaped upon it, -but it was already impotent. A strength such as but rarely comes to man -had held Hugh’s hand steady; and the shot had made a clean passage -through the creature’s brain. - -Broken Fang’s trail of rapine and carnage had come to an end at last. He -typified all that was most deadly and terrible in the wilderness, and he -had fallen in fair battle with the breed whose strength—in such regions -where they venture—has conquered the wilderness. He was a forest -monarch; but his foe was the shepherd. Talon and fang and supple -strength had not been availing. - -He would linger no more about the white flocks, and the Little People -along the game trails had seen him steal by for the last time. No more -would the deer know his long, shuddering scream as the night came down. -He lay as if fallen in battle against the flocks,—a token of man’s -dominance of the wild. - -Hugh turned from him to find a strange stir and excitement among the -sheep. It seemed to him that in those invisible ways no man may trace, a -knowledge and a message was being passed from one to another; and a new -hope and spirit was sweeping the flock. There was no concerted movement -as yet. Still the sheep stood motionless, but their heads were raised. -The only moving forms were those of Spot and his ewes, running along the -flank of the flock. And suddenly Spot turned back in the direction that -he had come. - -And every animal in that flock of three thousand leaped after him in -pursuit. The whole expanse of white lurched forward like an avalanche -starting from the high peaks. Hugh cried out in irrepressible wonder, -and thrill after thrill coursed like electricity through his frame. An -unspeakable rapture flooded his being; and he whirled about to find a -white flame—no less miraculous than this sudden sweeping-forward of the -flocks—mounting in Alice’s face. The dog raced forward, barking. - -By instinct rather than reason the shepherds understood. Their old -leader had for the moment at least returned to the sheep; they rallied -as instinctively as soldiers at the sight of their beloved general, and -they were ready to follow him even into the flame. It made no difference -that he was leading straight toward the flaming wall to the east, a -dreadful region where the fire raged fiercely and whence without his -leadership they would have been afraid to go. They ran as if with -renewed spirit. - -Perhaps they remembered him of old and gave him their trust. Perhaps he -brought them word of some new hope that lay even in the jaws of death. -Swiftly the flock fell into its old formation, the strongest in front, -every black marker in its place. They swept like a foam-covered sheet of -water into the red dusk of the distant forest. - -“Come!” Hugh shouted. “Spot’s showing us the way.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXXI - - -“The Little People show the way,” was the saying of a more credulous -race in an older West; and Hugh knew its truth at last. This was no -blind lead,—the westward course of the bighorn ram in the van of the -sheep flock. He led them straight to a pass that only the wild creatures -knew, a course already taken by such of the animals as had been trapped -between the converging walls of flame and through which Broken Fang had -pursued him. The instincts of the lesser folk had served when Hugh’s own -conscious intelligence and knowledge had failed. - -After a half-mile’s wild run Spot turned into a narrow-mouthed canyon, -leading in a long course clear to the high peaks. A creek had flowed -through it in some past age and carved its banks, but through some -geological catastrophe its waters were diverted and only a dry bed of -stones remained. Half-hidden by heavy brush thickets, neither Fargo nor -Alice had ever dreamed of its existence: it was just one of many unknown -gorges in the unlimited mountain spaces of the American West. -Spot—perhaps wholly unaware of the fire—had sped down it before the -pursuit of Broken Fang, and now that his enemy was slain he was simply -taking the same course back to his own people in the mountains. - -The flame had not yet crept down its rocky, barren walls. It was such a -place as the rattlesnakes love, but not a feeding ground for sheep; and -the little herbage that grew between its bowlders had not offered a -swift passage for the fire. The flames raged above them on each side, -but the fiery walls had not yet converged and made the impassable -barrier on which Fargo had counted. And Spot’s whole flock sped behind -him into its sheltering depths. - -They were none too soon. Within a few minutes the advancing tide of -flame would have covered its mouth if indeed it had not crept down over -the steep walls into the canyon floor itself. But the straight road to -safety was open at last. Far beyond, leading him like a star, Spot could -see the glorious white peaks of his home. The domestic sheep could not -follow him all the distance, yet the way was clear and safe for them -completely beyond the outer reaches of the fire. And all that Hugh and -Alice had to do—with Shep running and barking with joy beside them—was -to follow the white flocks. - -The lesser folk had shown the way,—just as many times before in the -long roll of the ages. No man could have followed Spot out from the -terror of the fire that night and still thought—in monstrous -arrogance—that the wild things of the world were created only for his -own blood-lust and his own pleasure. The comradeship of men and beasts -is of ancient origin, and its utility is not yet gone. The bighorn -ram—exiled by birth among strangers and lost to his brethren once more -because of the cougar’s hunting—was headed back to his own snow-capped -peaks—and Hugh and Alice and the surging flocks had simply followed his -lead. And the way he had shown was that of life and safety when all -other paths were closed. - -Just before the dawn broke, Hugh and Alice stood behind the flock, safe -and far from the ravages of the fire. Already Spot and his two ewes had -sped up a precipitate trail—where, because of the steep rocks and the -interference of Shep, the domestic sheep could not follow—and now all -three thousand of them were quietly grazing at the very foot of the high -mountains. And no man may say whether or not—like the lame child of -Hamlin town—they gazed with wistful eyes toward the misty mountain -realms where their leader had gone. They had been of the mountains too, -when the world was young, and perhaps they found themselves longing for -the steep ways and the hard days and the fierce delights that constitute -the lives of those mountain monarchs, the bighorn sheep. - -The dawn grew in the east. The white peaks glowed and gleamed. And the -girl’s brown hand crept into Hugh’s. - -“Did you know,” she asked him, whispering, “that we’ve won? That we’re -safe, after all? The rangers are probably already on the way to fight -the fire, and we’ve nothing more to fear.” - -He turned to her, and they had a moment of laughter in which they -rejoiced at each other’s appearance. Their clothes were torn and half -burned away; the man’s eyebrows and lashes were singed; and their skins -were smudged with soot. But the perils and the stress had left no weight -upon their spirits. They were blistered, hungry, desperately fatigued, -but they were gloriously happy and triumphant. - -“We’ve won,” he echoed. “A few fatalities—but not enough to count.” He -had engaged in much folly in his time, but it was to be said of Hugh -that he wasted no emotion or maudlin words over the dead body of José in -the burning brush behind. “And we can get Fargo too—on a charge of -arson, at least. There will be some way to handle him. And the only -thing left to talk about is you and I.” - -“Shep, too,” she reminded him soberly. - -The man glanced down into the loving brown eyes of the shepherd dog. He -also was dirty and disheveled,—a shocking thing to be seen in a -drawing-room but beloved past all utterance here. “Heaven forgive me, -Shep, for forgetting you,” the man cried, dropping to his knees. He was -quite sober as he held the dog a long moment in his strong arms. His -bronzed face was intent. It was enough reward for Shep. His master -released him, and he circled round the two of them, barking in mad joy. - -And after all they attended to Shep’s destinies very swiftly. No wealth -on earth could take him from them. And because their thought was clear -and their understanding great, they did not even consider banishing him -to a life of ease,—a chimney corner where he might doze away the days. -Shep was of the world of toil; until his noble spirit departed from his -body he would still have his guard of honor over the sheep. He would -still know the hard labor, the long grinding hours, the nervous sleep in -the firelight beloved of long ago, and perhaps—for reward—a plain meal -and a caress at the end of the day. - -“And if you’re going to stay with Shep,” the girl went on, her eyes -averted, “it means—that you’re going to stay with the sheep?” - -He smiled strangely. “Could I ever leave them, Alice?” He groped for -words, but none had ever been invented that could reveal the sudden, -moving impulses of his soul. “I can’t tell you how much it has all -meant—how much it will mean in the future. Don’t you see, Alice—that -this is my rightful place? With the sheep? In the wilderness? I couldn’t -go—even if you sent me away, I’d have to go into the sheep business on -my own account.” - -“That’s right—you could. You could raise money——” - -He suddenly laughed,—in sheer delight. His wealth—forgotten in the -great vaults in an Eastern city—would be of use to him, after all. In a -few breathless sentences he told her of his past life, his wasted days, -and his regeneration. They would fill the hills with the feeding flocks, -these two. Still they would know the comradeship of the camp fire, the -night wind whispering through the secret places. It was their heritage, -and they would not forego it. They were the shepherds, and this was -their destiny. - -“And if we’re both going to have old Shep, and both follow the -flocks—there’s another consideration, too,” Hugh went on. “Maybe it’s -too much to ask. But the soldier has seen _some_ service; and he can’t -restrain himself any longer. We’ve got to have each other, too.” - -A strong man’s love looked out to her from his eyes, and his face was -sober and wistful with entreaty. There was just one instant in which the -whole world hung suspended over a pit of darkness. And then, with a glad -little cry, she stole into his arms. - -“Each other—always,” she told him. “Oh, shepherd of my heart!” - - * * * * * - -And perhaps the spirit of the Old Colonel—sitting in the Greenwood Club -and dreaming of the mountain realms he loved—came wandering over peak -and plain and saw these two, their arms about each other and their eyes -lighted with fond dreams—and swiftly stole back to make its report to -its master. And thereupon the old man smiled in his half-doze, wondering -at the mighty ways of worlds and men,—and the calm spirit of the -flocks, grazing in the forest. - - - THE END - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious -punctuation and typesetting errors have been corrected without note. -Where multiple spellings were found, majority use has been employed. - -[End of _Shepherds of the Wild_ by Edison Marshall] - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHEPHERDS OF THE WILD *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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