The Story of Wool

by Sara Ware Bassett

"They play it almost as well as we did at school," said Donald, much amused.

"That is a useful game too," went on Sandy. "By playing it the young lambs learn to follow the others, and do what they do. That is one way they get training to keep in the herd and obey the mind of the leader. It is really more of a lesson than a game. I suspect, though, they are like us—so long as they think it is a game they like to play it. Perhaps, now, if we were to hint to them it was a lesson they might never play it again."

Donald chuckled.

There were many times when it seemed to him that Sandy must be a boy of fourteen instead of a man of forty; yet the next moment the Scotchman would address him with the gravity of a grandfather, and immediately Donald felt very young indeed. A strange mixture of youth and wisdom was Sandy McCulloch!

As the lambs were now old enough to travel with the flock there was no further need for the Mexicans to linger on the range, and they therefore went back over the trail to busy themselves at the home ranch until shearing time. The camp-tender, too, did not now take time to make the difficult journey up into the mountains, but left supplies at a given spot in the lower pastures, or met some of the party half-way and delivered over the provisions. If the rations were left it fell to the lot of one of the campers on the upper range to ride down on the pony and bring back "the grub," as Sandy called it. Once when Mr. Clark went down it was only to find that the supplies had been scented out by a bear and dragged away; in consequence the party on the mountain were forced to get on without bread or fresh provisions until the tender made his next round.

At times it was Donald's turn to make this trip; on other days Sandy or Bernardo went. As there was always the chance of meeting a grizzly or a rattler the journey was not without its perils.

Thus the summer passed.

Then came the fall days, when threatened cold made it necessary to turn the heads of the herd toward the lower hills of the winter range. Downward they wended their way. Flurries of snow caught them unawares and at these blizzards Sandy's face always became grave, for it was in one of these sudden squalls that his father, Old Angus, had perished. Although the days were chilly and the nights still colder, Mr. Clark and Donald kept resolutely with the flock; but when they reached the lowlands and the Scotch herder directed his band of sheep toward the bronzed fields of sage-brush and dried hay lying along the river valley Donald and his father bade good-bye to Bernardo and Sandy and returned to the shelter of the home ranch.

Thornton welcomed them.

There was something new in his manner—a strange, unaccustomed dignity which lent to the man a charm he had never before possessed.