Somewhere in the ravine below they could catch the rushing music of a stream which wove itself in and out a maze of rolling hills and was lost at last in the shadows of the green valleys.
As they stood silent and drank in the beauty about them, an angry voice broke the stillness.
It came from the interior of the barn near which they were standing.
"I tell you what, Tom Thornton, I'm with Sandy McCulloch. The sheep always were washed after shearing in Old Angus's day, and in Johnson's as well. That is how Crescent Ranch came to have the good name it now holds. There were no scabby sheep here to infect the rest of the herd."
"What's that to you, Jack Owen? You are here to mind the boss, ain't you? What's the use of our working like beavers for ten days to dip the flock if we don't have to? Dipping is a dirty, tiresome job. You are not in for making work for yourself, are you?"
"The flocks will be ruined!"
"What do you care—they are not your sheep."
"Well, I have been on this ranch a long time, Thornton, and I can't help caring what becomes of 'em. I take the same pride in the place Sandy does. We have won a reputation here for doing things the way they ought to be done—for minding the laws—for having clean, healthy stock. Sandy says he shall dip his herd, anyway."
"Bother Sandy! He's talked to you men until he's got you all upset. You would have been with me if he had kept his mouth shut. But no matter what he says I am running this ranch at present. I mean to run it in the future, too. If you're wise you will do as I tell you."
"Mr. Clark may have something to say about the dipping."