CHAPTER VI
NEW VISTAS
Much that Annersley had taught Pete was undone in the lazy, listless life of the sheep-camp. There was a certain slow progressiveness about it, however, that saved it from absolute monotony. Each day the sheep grazed out, the distance being automatically adjusted by the coming of night, when they were bunched and slowly drifted back to the bedding-ground. A day or two—depending on the grazing—and they were bedded in a new place as the herder worked toward the low country followed by a recurrent crispness in the air that presaged the coming of winter in the hills. Pete soon realized that, despite their seeming independence, sheep-men were slaves of the seasons. They "followed the grass" and fled from cold weather and snow. At times, if the winter was severe in the lower levels, they even had to winter-feed to save the band. Lambs became tired or sick—unable to follow the ewes—and Pete often found some lone lamb hiding beneath a clump of brush where it would have perished had he not carried it on to the flock and watched it until it grew stronger. He learned that sheep were gregarious—that a sheep left alone on the mesa, no matter how strong, through sheer loneliness would cease to eat and slowly starve to death. Used to horses, Pete looked upon sheep with contempt. They had neither individual nor collective intelligence. Let them once become frightened and if not immediately headed off by the dogs, they would stampede over the brink of an arroyo and trample each other to death. This all but happened once when Montoya was buying provisions in town and Pete was in charge of the band. The camp was below the rim of a cañon. The sheep were scattered over a mile or so of mesa, grazing contentedly. The dogs, out-posted on either side of the flock, were resting, but alert. To the left, some distance from the sheep, was the cañon-rim and a trail, gatewayed by two huge boulders, man-high, with about enough space between them for a burro to pass. A horse could hardly have squeezed through. Each night the sheep were headed for this pass and worked through, one at a time, stringing down the trail below which was steep and sandy. At the cañon bottom was water and across the shallows were the bedding-grounds and the camp. Pete, drowsing in the sun, occasionally glanced up at the flock. He saw no need for standing up, as Montoya always did when out with the band. The sheep were all right—and the day was hot. Presently Pete became interested in a mighty battle between a colony of red ants which seemed to be attacking a colony of big black ants that had in some way infringed on some international agreement, or overstepped the color-line. Pete picked up a twig and hastily scraped up a sand barricade, to protect the red ants, who, despite their valor, seemed to be getting the worst of it. Black ants scurried to the top of the barricade to be grappled by the tiny red ants, who fought valiantly. Pete saw a red ant meet one of the enemy who was twice his size, wrestle with him and finally best him. Evidently this particular black ant, though deceased, was of some importance, possibly an officer, for the little red ant seized him and bore him bodily to the rear where he in turn collapsed and was carried to the adjoining ant-hill by two of his comrades evidently detailed on ambulance work. "Everybody scraps—even the bugs," said Pete. "Them little red cusses sure ain't scared o' nothin'." Stream after stream of red ants hastened to reinforce their comrades on the barricade. The battle became general. Pete grew excited. He was scraping up another barricade when he heard one of the dogs bark. He glanced up. The sheep, frightened by a buzzard that had swooped unusually close to them, bunched and shot toward the cañon in a cloud of dust. Pete jumped to his feet and ran swiftly toward the rock gateway to head them off. He knew that they would make for the trail, and that those that did not get through the pass would trample the weaker sheep to death. The dog on the cañon side of the band raced across their course, snapping at the foremost in a sturdy endeavor to turn them. But he could not. He ran, nipped a sheep, and then jumped back to save himself from being cut to pieces by the blundering feet. Young Pete saw that he could not reach the pass ahead of them. Out of breath and half-sobbing as he realized the futility of his effort, he suddenly recalled an incident like this when Montoya, failing to head the band in a similar situation, had coolly shot the leader and had broken the stampede.
Pete immediately sat down, and rested the barrel of his six-shooter on his knee. He centered on the pass. A few seconds—and a big ram, several feet ahead of the others, dashed into the notch. Pete grasped his gun with both hands and fired. The ram reared and dropped just within the rocky gateway. Pete saw another sheep jump over the ram and disappear. Pete centered on the notch again and as the gray mass bunched and crowded together to get through, he fired. Another sheep toppled and fell. Still the sheep rushed on, crowding against the rocks and trampling each other in a frantic endeavor to get through. Occasionally one of the leaders leaped over the two dead sheep and disappeared down the trail. But the first force of their stampede was checked. Dropping his gun, Pete jumped up and footed it for the notch, waving his hat as he ran. Bleating and bawling, the band turned slowly and swung parallel to the cañon-rim. The dogs, realizing that they could now turn the sheep back, joined forces, and running a ticklish race along the very edge of the cañon, headed the band toward the safe ground to the west. Pete, as he said later, "cussed 'em a plenty." When he took up his station between the band and the cañon, wondering what Montoya would say when he returned.
When the old Mexican, hazing the burros across the mesa, saw Pete wave his hat, he knew that something unusual had happened. Montoya shrugged his shoulders as Pete told of the stampede.
"So it is with the sheep," said Montoya casually. "These we will take away, for the sheep will smell the blood and not go down the trail." And he pointed to the ram and the ewe that Pete had shot. "I will go to the camp and unpack. You have killed two good sheep, but you have saved many."
Pete said nothing about the battle of the ants. He knew that he had been remiss, but he thought that in eventually turning the sheep he had made up for it.
And because Pete was energetic, self-reliant, and steady, capable of taking the burros into town and packing back provisions promptly—for Pete, unlike most boys, did not care to loaf about town—the old herder became exceedingly fond of him, although he seldom showed it in a direct way. Rather, he taught Pete Mexican—colloquialisms and idioms that are not found in books—until Pete, who already knew enough of the language to get along handily, became thoroughly at home whenever he chanced to meet a Mexican—herder, cowboy, or storekeeper. Naturally, Pete did not appreciate the value of this until later—when his familiarity with the language helped him out of many a tight place. But what Pete did appreciate was the old herder's skill with the six-gun—his uncanny ability to shoot from any position on the instant and to use the gun with either hand with equal facility. In one of the desert towns Pete had traded a mountain-lion skin for a belt and holster and several boxes of cartridges to boot, for Pete was keen at bargaining. Later the old Mexican cut down the belt to fit Pete and taught him how to hang the gun to the best advantage. Then he taught Pete to "draw," impressing upon him that while accuracy was exceedingly desirable, a quick draw was absolutely essential. Pete practiced early and late, more than disgusted because Montoya made him practice with an empty gun. He "threw down" on moving sheep, the dogs, an occasional distant horseman, and even on Montoya himself, but never until the old herder had examined the weapon and assured himself that he would not be suddenly bumped off into glory by his ambitious assistant. As some men play cards, partly for amusement and partly to keep their hands in, so Pete and Montoya played the six-gun game, and neither seemed to tire of the amusement. Montoya frequently unloaded his own gun and making sure that Pete had done likewise, the old herder would stand opposite him and count—"Una, duo, tres," and the twain would "go for their guns" to see who would get in the first theoretical shot. At first Pete was slow. His gun was too heavy for him and his wrist was not quick. But he stuck to it until finally he could draw and shoot almost as fast as his teacher. Later they practiced while sitting down, while reclining propped on one elbow, and finally from a prone position, where Pete learned to roll sideways, draw and shoot even as a side-winder of the desert strikes without coiling. Montoya taught him to throw a shot over his shoulder, to "roll" his gun, to pretend to surrender it, and, handing it out butt first, flip it over and shoot the theoretical enemy. He also taught him one trick which, while not considered legitimate by most professional gunmen, was exceedingly worth while on account of its deadly unexpectedness—and that was to shoot through the open holster without drawing the gun. Such practice allowed of only a limited range, never higher than a man's belt, but as Montoya explained, a shot belt-high and center was most effective.
Pete took an almost vicious delight in perfecting himself in this trick. He knew of most of the other methods—but shooting with the gun in the holster was difficult and for close-range work, and just in proportion to its difficulty Pete persevered.
He was fond of Montoya in an offhand way, but with the lessons in gunmanship his fondness became almost reverence for the old man's easy skill and accuracy. Despite their increasing friendliness, Pete could never get Montoya to admit that he had killed a man—and Pete thought this strange, at that time.