“Jed probably sent him,” Baxter said. “I tell you that old scoundrel will do you if he can, and if you throw out any of his sheep he will go to any length to get even.”
“They are going out all right,” Scott replied firmly, “if I can find any more than the limit. I have a little grudge of my own to even up.”
They topped a low ridge overlooking a small plateau and Baxter stopped in sudden amazement. “Great guns,” he exclaimed softly as his eye wandered excitedly over a great band of sheep which almost covered the plateau.
“How many?” he asked Scott after a careful estimate.
“Do you mean for me to guess?” Scott asked, “or tell you from my notes how many there are supposed to be?”
“Guess first and look it up afterwards,” Baxter suggested.
“Well, judging from the bands over your way I would say that there were at least two thousand, but none of the bands in this district are supposed to be that large.” He pulled out his memorandum, “The permit calls for fourteen hundred.”
“Gee, but they have their nerve right with them. There are twenty-five hundred in that band if there is one.”
“But where did they come from?” Scott asked in perplexity.
“That’s the question, all right,” Baxter answered thoughtfully. “Possibly another band has gotten mixed up with this one. It is not likely, but we better make sure before we raise a row about it. Where are the other bands?”