“Ricky, what are we goin’ to do? Will we roll out of here and let th’ sheep nurse themselves or will we stay here until Watts comes or until we starve to death? Golly, he can’t blame us if we do leave. What yuh say?”
“Leavin’ all jokin’ aside, Zeb, jist what does this all mean?” asked Ricky. “Got any real idea, Zeb?”
“Sheep war,” stated Zeb. “Or at any rate I believes she is. I takes it that th’ cattlemen here are uh heap sore at th’ sheep and wants to drive ’em all off th’ range. I reads it all in that article back in Blue Joint. I reckon that is why we gits this job so easy. Watts ain’t got no other place to range his woolies and he’s plumb got to have herders. Greasers won’t put up no fight a-tall, and so he pays uh big salary to white men to guard his property, sabe? I figgers it that some of th’ hangers-on of th’ cattlemen done went and loaded our stove with giant powder and takes uh chance that we’ll git elevated so much that we won’t look at no sheep-herdin’ job no more, Ricky. That’s uh dirty mucker trick I takes it.”
“Unha,” agreed Ricky. “I shore hates to quit in uh case like that. Mebby we’ll starve or go crazy and start blattin’ like uh pair uh two-legged woolies, Zebbie, old top but I’m game to sit in th’ game for uh few days yet. What say?”
They solemnly shook hands across their little fire and then Ricky produced that greasy deck of cards again.
“Doggone yo’re hide,” he drawled, “I’ll play yuh to see if she’s uh hundred thousand or quits. That last jack wasn’t le-gitimate, Zeb. It’s got uh corner torn and yuh knowed it.”
The next three days were a nightmare of chasing sheep through the dust and heat and then eating half-cooked mutton for breakfast, dinner and supper, and of sleeping on the bare ground with nothing but the sky for a blanket. It gets cool in the small hours of the morning in the range country, albeit the thermometer rises to the century mark in the shade at midday.
During that time they had glimpses of cowboys riding across the upper part of the range but there had been no further demonstrations of violence.
On the morning of the fourth day it was a gaunted, sorrowful pair of shepherds who trailed that big bunch of sheep out of the valley and up the hills. Zeb strode in the lead and hurled imprecations on all wool-bearing animals, as one old ram detached himself from the band and tried to go back to the bed ground.
“’At a boy!” yelled Ricky, as Zeb bounced a piece of basalt rock off the ram’s head. “Git back yuh old curly horned animated bock-beer sign!” he whooped as the ram lowered its head and dove for him.