“How’d the old horn work?” he inquired cheerily.
“No good,” grunted Clark, rolling over.
“Aw, go on, wouldn’t they chase ye?”
“Nope. Nothin’ doin’. Say, lemme sleep, will ye?”
“Sure,” said Creede, “when I git through with you. Which way was them sheep travellin’?”
“Well, some was goin’ straight up over the Four Peaks and the rest was p’intin’ west. You and your old horn––I nigh blowed my fool head off and never got a rise! They was all blowin’ them horns over by the Pocket this aft.”
“Um,” said Creede, “they was all blowin’, hey? And what else was they doin’?”
“Shootin’, fer further orders, and driftin’ their 335 sheep. They’s about a hundred thousand, right over the hill.”
“Huh!” grunted Creede, turning to his belated dinner, “what d’ye make of that, Rufe?”
“Nothing,” replied Hardy, “except more work.”