"For certain! And mind what I'm telling you—you will see more things that the government is doing for the herders when you get higher up. You will see great pastures fenced in with coyote-proof wire—pastures to be used in lambing time so the young creatures will be safe from prairie-dogs."
"Do you have coyotes on the range?"
"Do we? Do we? Folks would know you for a tenderfoot right off if they heard you ask that question! The coyote, I'd have you know, is the pest of the sheepman. He's the meanest critter—but there, why be talking? You'll see for yourself soon enough. The government has spent thousands of dollars killing coyotes on these ranges."
"To help the sheep-raisers?"
"So."
"Well, I don't wonder my father wanted Crescent Ranch to pay its full share for permits. Since we are getting all these advantages, we ought to bear our part of the expense, oughtn't we?" said Donald.
"That's my feeling. We ought to be proud, too, we are bearing it. It's a grand country! I wasn't born here, like you, but I came here as a child, and the bones of my people are here. I mean to live in America and take what it offers, and wouldn't I be the churl not to give the little I can in return! I haven't money, but I can live up to the laws. Scotchman though I be 'twill no hinder me from making a good American of myself."
"Bully for you, Sandy!" cried Donald. Then he added soberly: "I am going to be a better American when I get back home."
"Dinna wait till then, laddie—be a better one now!"
Sandy chanced to be deftly cutting the outline of a thistle on a spruce staff he was carving for the boy. Donald watched him in silence as he worked in the fading light. The sun had set behind the chain of near hills, and the plateau where they were camping was gray with shadows. Through the dusk they could see the flock lazily browsing among the junipers.