“Ye-es,” admitted the sheepman grudgingly, “it looks good enough, but––well, I lived up there a long time and I got to like it. I had one of the nicest little ranches in the White Mountains; there was good huntin’ and fishin’ and––well, I felt like a white man up there––never had no trouble, you understand––and I was makin’ good money, too.”
His voice, which before had been harsh and strident, softened down as he dwelt upon the natural beauty of the mountains which had been his home, but there was a tone of sadness in his talk which told Hardy that ultimately he had suffered some great misfortune there. His occupation alone suggested that––for there are few white men working as sheep-herders who lack a hard luck story, if any one will listen to it. But this Shep Thomas was still young and unbroken, with none of the black marks of dissipation upon his face, 183 and his eyes were as keen and steady as any hunter’s. He was indeed the very type of fighter that Swope had sought, hardy and fearless, and at the same time careful. As they sat together Hardy looked him over and was glad that he had come out unarmed, yet though his host seemed a man of just and reasonable mind there was a set, dogged look in his eyes which warned the cowman not to interfere, but let him talk his fill. And the boss herder, poor lonely man, was carried away in spite of himself by the temptation of a listener; after many days of strife and turmoil, cutting trails, standing off cowmen, cursing Mexicans, at last to meet a white man who would just sit silent and let him talk! His stories were of hunting and fishing, of prospecting, and restless adventures among the Indians, and every time the conversation worked around towards sheep he led it resolutely away. And for his part, never for a moment did Hardy try to crowd him, but let the talk lead where it would, until of his own volition the sheepman told his story.
“I suppose you wonder what I’m doing down here,” he said at last, “if I was so stuck on the Concho country? Well, I bet you wouldn’t guess in a thousand years––and you ought to be a pretty good guesser, too,” he added, with a gruff laugh. “Now, what do you think it was that put me on the bum?”
“Poker game?” queried Hardy politely.
“Nope,” replied the sheepman, showing his teeth, “I’m winners on poker.”
“You don’t look like a drinking man.”
“Naw––nor it wasn’t women, either. It’s something unusual, I tell you. I stood and looked at it for ten years, and never turned a hair. But here, I’ve been holdin’ out on you a little––I never told you what it was I raised on my ranch. Well, it was sheep.”
“Sheep?” echoed Hardy, “did you keep ’em there all Winter?”
“W’y sure, man. There’s lots of sheep in Apache County that was never ten miles from home.”