It was a time for lightning action—for incessant motion;—for the use of the queer hereditary sheepdog instinct. There was no question of merely obeying shouted orders, now, nor of following the direction of a waved hat. Treve was working “on his own.” He was using his native genius as a herder; keeping that wild bunch headed aright and in the trail; and cutting short abortive efforts of the whole mass to cascade out on to the burnt fields on either side or to bolt for the smoking coulée.
His flying feet spurned the ground, scarcely seeming to touch it. His tawny-gold body flashed in and out; seemingly in ten parts of the trailside at once.
Then all at once the nerve-racking job was done. The whole flock was out of the gateway and safe on the trail; with Zit and Zilla weaving in and out, steering them straight; and the herdsmen in their places along the pattering ranks. Treve could change his flying zigzag gallop to a wolf-trot. He could even brush his panting muzzle against Royce Mack’s hand as he trotted past the busy rancher.
Up the coulée-side trail moved the sheep; the myriad patter of their hoofs sounding on the rutted roadbed like cloudburst rain on a shingle roof.
Deep in the bottom of the coulée, to left of the twisting trail, the fire still snapped and flickered. Its smell and sight and smoke sent recurrent panic waves over the army of sheep. The three dogs seemed to know in advance when these efforts at bolting would begin.
Treve’s white paws were grimed and sore from frequent dashes along the coulée-side; where he needs must run on the steep scorched bank paralleling the trail; turning back any loose edges of the gray-white flock that sought to scamper down the incline.
“Keep it up, Trevy,” whisperingly encouraged old Joel Fenno, as the collie whisked past him on such an errand. “Another mile, an’ the road’s due to shift to the right, away from this smoke-hole. Then it’ll be plain goin’.”
Treve caught the low sound of his own name; and wagged his plumed tail in reply, as he ran on.
“Be past the coulée in a little while, now!” sang out Royce Mack, to his partner. “The dogs are holding them, great!”
“Yep,” growled Fenno. “The two black ones are. Treve’s loafin’ on the job, as usual. I’m hopin’ he won’t do some fool stunt, when we get to the crossroad, up yonder, an’ hustle a bunch of the sheep onto the Triple Bar range. I wouldn’t put it past the chucklehead.”