“The shot we heard?”
“No. That rifle shot. The dog shot with pistol.”
“And how in the world did you find that out?”
“Not know sure—looks heap like a scratch by small-caliber bullet. Couldn’t hear pistol shot so far.”
“I’ve heard,” Hugh said thoughtfully, “that it isn’t good form—for a herder to shoot at his own dog.”
“Maybe not that,” the Indian went on. His tone was so strange and flat that Hugh whirled to stare at him. “Fire’s burning out too—sheep getting restless. Maybe better see where herder is.”
“Don’t you suppose he’s in his shelter tent?”
“We’ll look and see.”
They started out into the clearing, the dog running in front of them. The sheep, after the manner of their kind, paid no attention to them. They walked swiftly toward the little tent beside the stream.
The dog stopped, sniffing at something that lay in a little clump of thicket. When still a few paces distant, Hugh thought it was one of the black sheep, separated from the flock. The Indian, however, made no such mistake. And he hardly turned to glance at it.