"I hope he will let me go."
"Dinna fear! We will ask him to-night or to-morrow. Thornton will be back to-morrow. Then we'll be getting ready the wagons and our own kit."
"What wagons?"
"Did you no see the canvas-topped wagons in the barn? Verra like gipsy wagons they are. We call them prairie schooners because they are the sort of wagon the first settlers crossed the country in. Ships of the Desert they were indeed! In the West we use them even now. When we go to the range three of these wagons go along part way and carry the food, establishing what we call central camps. From these camps provisions are brought to us."
"Don't you come down for your food!" exclaimed Donald, aghast.
"Nay, nay! Never a bit! When we are off, we're off! We never turn back until fall. Our food is sent to us on the range three times a week. A camp-tender comes on horseback bringing supplies on a packhorse or on a little Mexican burro. If we are not too far up in the hills this tender fetches the food all the way; if we are, he leaves it in some spot agreed upon and we go down and get it, leaving the flocks in care of the dogs. The schooners stay near enough to the home ranch so they can go back and forth now and then and get restocked. We ourselves take a few pots and pans to the range—just enough so we can cook our meals. It is like camping out anywhere else."
"I love camping!" cut in Donald.
"Then you'll like the range for certain."
"I know I shall. I hope I can go. What a lot I am learning, Sandy! Pretty soon I shall know more about sheep-raising than father does!"
"Dinna fret yourself about your father," was Sandy's dry retort. "He needs no pity. He can take care of himself."