Weary, who had charge of the outfit during Chip's absence, was making straight for the nearest herder. Pink and Andy went with him, as a matter of course.
“You fellows ride up around that side, and put the run on them sheep,” Weary shouted back to the others. “We'll start the other side moving. Make 'em travel—back where they came from.” He jerked his head toward the north. He knew, just as they all knew, that there had been no sheep to the south, unless one counted those that ranged across the Missouri river.
As the three forced their horses up the steep slope, the herder, sitting slouched upon a rock, glanced up at them dully. He had a long stick, with which he was apathetically turning over the smaller stones within his reach, and as apathetically killing the black bugs that scuttled out from the moist earth beneath. He desisted from this unexciting pastime as they drew near, and eyed them with the sullenness that comes of long isolation when the person's nature forbids that other extreme of babbling garrulity, for no man can live long months alone and remain perfectly normal. Nature, that stern mistress, always exacts a penalty from us foolish mortals who would ignore the instincts she has wisely implanted within us for our good.
“Maybe,” Weary began mildly and without preface, “you don't know this is private property. Get busy with your dogs, and haze these sheep back on the bench.” He waved his hand to the north. “And, when you get a good start in that direction,” he added, “yuh better keep right on going.”
The herder surveyed him morosely, but he said nothing; neither did he rise from the rock to obey the command. The dogs sat upon their haunches and perked their ears inquiringly, as if they understood better than did their master that these men were not to be quite overlooked.
“I meant to-day,” Weary hinted, with the manner of one who deliberately holds his voice quiet.
“I never asked yuh what yuh meant,” the herder mumbled, scowling. “We got to keep 'em on water another hour, yet.” He went back to turning over the small rocks and to pursuing with his stick the bugs, as if the whole subject were squeezed dry of interest.
For a minute Weary stared unwinkingly down at him, uncertain whether to resent this as pure insolence, or to condone it as imbecility. “Mamma!” he breathed eloquently, and grinned at Andy and Pink. “This is a real talkative cuss, and obliging, too. Come on, boys; he's too busy to bother with a little thing like sheep.”
He led the way around to the far side of the band, the nearest sheep scuttling away from then as they passed. “I don't suppose we could work the combination on those dogs—what?” he considered aloud, glancing back at them where they still sat upon their haunches and watched the strange riders. “Say, Cadwalloper, you took a few lessons in sheepherding, a couple of years ago, when you was stuck on that girl—remember? Whistle 'em up here and set 'en to work.”
“You go to the devil,” Pink's curved hips replied amiably to his boss. “I've got loss-uh-memory on the sheep business.”