“We’ve sure got to get them sheep to water, and that mighty quick,” was the latter’s laconic announcement.
“Nonsense! There’s plenty of water. What’s the matter with ’em?”
“Ten miles out of the hills we found a water-hole, but the cattle had been there first, and the sheep wouldn’t look at it. At the camp last night there was another hole, but some imp had deviled the herd an’ they lay alongside the water, dyin’ of thirst, but they wouldn’t drink. We pushed ’em in an’ they swam around; we half-drowned some of ’em, but still they wouldn’t drink.
“So we made a night march without finding water, and we haven’t found any to-day. They’re gettin’ frantic now.”
Bud quirted the tired Pinte into a gallop, and they approached the herd, about which the dark, slim figures of the dogs were running. From the 44 distance the first sound was the ceaseless blethering of the flock that proclaimed its misery. The next was the musical tinkling of the bells the leaders wore.
“Reckon they’ve found another hole,” said Sims. “Thought I seen one when I was ridin’ out.”
On nearer approach it was seen that the herd was “milling,” that is, revolving in a great circle, with a number of inner circles, half smothered in the dust they raised, without aim or knowledge of what they did, or why. About the herd at various points stood the half-dozen shepherds, their long crooks in their hands. Whenever a blatting animal made a dash for liberty the dogs drove it into the press, barking and nipping.
Larkin rode to a tall, dark-skinned shepherd, a Basque from the California herding.
“What is it, Pedro?” he asked. “What is the matter with them?”
“Only the good God can tell. The leaders they take fright at something, I do not know, and we ’mill’ them before any damage is done.”