“Great Michaeljohn!” swore Sims, heaving his long length erect. “More?”
“Yes; it is Rubino with the third flock.”
Sims cast a practiced eye over the sides of the swelling hills, where already two thousand animals, the second consignment, were feeding. It was now a week since he had met Bud Larkin after the stampede, and he was worried over the non-appearance of his chief. Here, in the hills of the southern hook of the Big Horn Mountains, he had fed the second flock up one valley and down the next, waiting for Larkin’s arrival or some word from him.
Hurrying south after that midnight meeting, he had reached his destination just in time to check the advance of the second two thousand that had 150 come the night before. Knowing the hard march north, but ignorant of the conditions now prevailing on the Bar T range, he had hesitated to expose more of Larkin’s animals to ruin.
The arrival of this third flock complicated matters in the extreme, since the feeding-ground became constantly farther away from the original rendezvous.
He looked in the direction indicated by the herder and saw the cloud of dust that betokened the advance of the new flock. Soon the tinkle of the bells and the blethering of the animals themselves reached him, and he started leisurely back to meet Rubino.
He found the sheep in good physical shape, for they had been traveling at a natural pace, a condition not always easily brought about, and totally dependent on the skill of the herder. If the dogs or men follow constantly behind the animals, they, feeling that they are being constantly urged, will go faster and faster, neglecting to crop, and so starve on their feet in the midst of abundant feed. For this reason herders often walk slowly ahead of their flock, holding them back.
“Where are the next two thousand?” Sims asked Rubino.
“Two days behind, and coming slowly.” 151
“And the last?”