Scott stopped for a few minutes to examine the chute. It was made of two fences which were built to form an hour glass. The sheep were driven into the broad funnel-shaped entrance which narrowed down till there was room for only one or two sheep to go through at a time.
“You sit up there,” Heth explained, “and count them as they go through. It’s some job when they get to crowding and piling up, but easy enough most of the time.”
“Is there any way to stop them if they get to coming too fast?” Scott asked.
“Couldn’t stop them with a four bar gate after the leader has gone through. You can keep pretty good track of them after you get used to it. We had one fellow here who used to be a whirlwind at counting before the chute was built. They could not come too fast for him. Some guy asked him how he did it. ‘Easy enough,’ he says, ‘count their feet and divide by four.’”
“Well,” Scott laughed, “I guess I can manage it all right then if they all have the same number of feet. See you at supper.” He rode on down the steep trail alone. He felt that now for the first time he was really doing a patrolman’s work. Yesterday’s ride was designed to acquaint him with the trails, but to-day he was doing something which would go on record. Just how much of a record he was going to make that day he did not dream at the time.
Once out of the cañon Jed struck a long, swinging pace which made the valley slip by like a panorama, and soon brought him to the home of the first small rancher. The man was just about to mount his horse when Scott rode up. He returned a sullen nod to Scott’s cheery greeting.
“Mr. Simpson?” Scott asked, pausing in the act of dismounting. He was feeling particularly friendly himself this morning and the other’s cold manner grated on him. “More Western hospitality,” he thought.
“You guessed it,” Mr. Simpson answered briefly.
“I am the patrolman for district three of the National Forest,” Scott explained. The man knew perfectly well who he was and Scott knew that he knew, but an introduction seemed necessary to crack the ice. The man made no answer.
“I want to find out,” Scott continued, anxious to get through with this old grouch as soon as possible, “how many head of stock you want to run on the forest this year on your free use permit?”