At last from a high cliff which overshadowed the broad cañon of the middle fork, he looked down and saw the sheep, like a huge, dirty-brown blot, pouring in a hundred diverging lines down the valley and feeding as they came. Higher and higher up the sides the old ewes fought their way, plucking at the long spears of grass which grew among the rocks; and the advance guard, hurrying forward, nipped eagerly at the browse and foliage as they passed, until, at last, some tempting bush detained them too long and they 175 were swallowed up in the ruck. Little paths appeared in the leaders’ wake, winding in and out among the bowlders; and like soldiers the sheep fell into line, moving forward with the orderly precision of an army. A herder with his dogs trailed nonchalantly along the flank, the sun glinting from his carbine as he clambered over rocks, and in the rear another silent shepherd followed up the drag. So far it was a peaceful pastoral scene, but behind the herd where the camp rustler and his burros should have been there was a posse of men, and each man carried a gun.
Hardly had Chapuli mounted the ridge before every head was raised; the swarthy Mexicans unslung their guns with a flourish, and held them at a ready. Yet for half an hour the lone horseman sat there like a statue, and if he resented their coming or saw the dust of other bands behind, he made no sign. Even when the guard of men passed beneath him, craning their necks uneasily, he still remained silent and immobile, like a man who has councils of his own or leads a force behind.
The leader of the vanguard of the sheep was a white man, and not unversed in the principles of war, for after trailing safely through the box of the cañon––where a single rock displaced would kill a score of sheep, and where the lone horseman had he so willed could have potted half of the invaders from 176 the heights––he turned his herd up a side cañon to the west and hastily pitched his camp on a ridge. As the heat of the day came on, the other bands up the cañon stopped also, and when the faint smoke showed Hardy that the camp rustlers were cooking dinner, he turned and rode for the leader’s camp.
Dinner was already served––beans, fried mutton, and bread, spread upon a greasy canvas––and the hungry herders were shovelling it down with knives in their own primitive way when Hardy rode up the slope. As he came into camp the Chihuahuanos dropped their plates, reached for their guns, and stood in awkward postures of defence, some wagging their big heads in a braggartly defiance, others, their courage waning, grinning in the natural shame of the peasant. In Hardy they recognized a gentleman of categoría––and he never so much as glanced at them as he reined in his spirited horse. His eyes were fixed upon the lone white man, their commander, who stood by the fire regarding him with cold suspicion, and to whom he bowed distantly.
“Good-morning,” he said, by way of introduction, and the sheepman blinked his eyes in reply.
“Whose sheep are those?” continued Hardy, coming to the point with masterful directness, and once more the boss sheepman surveyed him with suspicion.
“Put up them guns, you gawky fools! This man ain’t going to eat ye!”