“What did he want?”
“About this business between him and me. Is it usual, Dad, for a man to work a year at forty dollars a month and found before he goes in as a partner on the increase of the flock he runs?”
“What makes you ask me that, John?”
“Only because there wasn’t anything said about it when I agreed with Tim to go to work here with you and learn the rudiments of handling a band of sheep. He sprung that on me today, when I thought I was about to begin my career as a capitalist. Instead of that, I’ve got a year ahead of me at ten dollars a month less than the ordinary herder gets. I just wanted to know.”
“Sheepmen are like sand under the feet when it comes to dealin’ with ’em; I never knew one that was in the same place twice. You’ve got a lot of tricks to learn in this trade, and I guess this is one of them. I don’t believe Tim ever intends to let you in on shares; that ain’t his style. Never did take anybody in on shares but Joan, that I know of. It looks to me like Tim’s workin’ you for all he can git out of you. You’ll herd for Tim a year at forty dollars, and teach Joan a thousand dollars’ worth while you’re doin’ it. You’re a mighty obligin’ feller, it looks like to me.”
Mackenzie sat thinking it over. He rolled it in his 82 mind quite a while, considering its most unlikely side, considering it as a question of comparative values, trying to convince himself that, if nothing more came of it than a year’s employment, he would be even better off than teaching school. If Tim was indeed planning to profit doubly by him during that year, Joan could have no knowledge of his scheme, he was sure.
On Joan’s account he would remain, he told himself, at last, feeling easier and less simple for the decision. Joan needed him, she counted on him. Going would be a sad disappointment, a bitter discouragement, to her. All on Joan’s account, of course, he would remain; Joan, with her russet hair, the purity of October skies in her eyes. Why, of course. Duty made it plain to him; solely on account of Joan.
“I’d rather be a foot-loose shearer, herdin’ in between like I do, than the richest sheepman on the range,” said Dad. “They’re tied down to one little spot; they work out a hole in their piece of the earth like a worm. It ain’t no life. I can have more fun on forty dollars than Tim Sullivan can out of forty thousand.”
Dad got out his greasy duck coat with sheepskin collar, such as cattlemen and sheepmen, and all kinds of outdoor men in that country wore, for the night was cool and damp with dew. Together they sat smoking, no more discussion between them, the dogs out of sight down the hill near the sheep.
Not a sound came out of the sheep, bedded on the hillside in contentment, secure in their trust of men and dogs. All day as they grazed there rose a murmur out of them, as of discontent, complaint, or pain. Now 83 their quavering, pathetic voices were as still as the wind. There was not a shuffle of hoof, not a sigh.