With this in mind he determined to ride over to the next district and see what the bands looked like over there. His way led through the valley where the fire had been reported the day before. The moist ground and the fresh green brush made him smile with pity for the ignorance of the poor chump up on the lookout who had supposed a fire possible.
“Couldn’t start a fire here in a stove,” Scott growled.
The words were hardly out of his mouth when he stopped with a jerk. There in a small opening in the trees were the remains of a large bon-fire. He rode over and examined them closely. They were very fresh. The fire had not been out for more than a day for the ground under the ashes was still warm. It was undoubtedly the fire that the lookout had reported the day before. But why had it been built? It was too large for a camp fire. There was no sign of any cutting, so it was not likely that it was built to dispose of logging slash. Moreover it was the only one around there. Scott could not figure it out, but one thing was clear, there had been a large fire and the lookout was not as large a chump as he had thought.
He rode on northward into the next district still wondering vaguely about that mysterious fire. He soon ran into a small band of sheep. The herder was a young fellow, cheerful and evidently glad to see any one who might break the monotony of his lonely life.
“Nice little band you have there,” Scott said by the way of introduction.
“You bet,” the herder responded enthusiastically, “and she’s not so small neither. Of course they would not be so many for the ‘red triangle’ or some of the other big fellows, but sixteen hundred sheep is a good many for one of us little fellows.”
“You don’t mean to say that there are sixteen hundred sheep in that bunch, do you?” Scott asked in open-mouthed astonishment.
“Yes, siree,” replied the herder in a tone which left no shadow of doubt, “and every one of them paid for with my own money.”
Scott saw that some commendation was expected. “Good for you,” he mumbled absently, “they’re a fine bunch. Luck to you.”
He rode on like a man in a trance. There was no doubt about the honesty of this fellow’s statement. A herder might be a little careless in estimating the number of his band, but this man owned the sheep himself and had them counted to the last bunch of wool. Scott glanced back once more at the feeding sheep. “Great guns,” he exclaimed, “if there are sixteen hundred there, there must be three thousand in each of those other bands.” And once more he rode on wondering.