# Shepherds of the Wild/Chapter 11

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Chapter XI
Hugh Gaylord had, like all men, experienced some rather violent surprises in his time. They had been coming exceptionally thick and fast since he had come to Smoky Land. His changed attitude toward life and his behavior in regard to the flocks had been amazing experiences in themselves. He had just experienced a rather violent shock on beholding the warlike behavior of Spot. The previous night he had been through the unusual experience of finding the body of a murdered man in a tent. But he suddenly realized that he was facing the most amazing situation of all.
Death, after all, in some manner or other comes to all living creatures. Hugh had no real reason for amazement at that still form in the herder's tent. He was ready to confess he didn't know a great deal about sheep: possibly Spot's episode with the coyote would not have so surprised a more experienced herder. But now he felt as if a number of his preconceived ideas had been violently knocked out of him, and that is always dumbfounding. His camp-tender was not a Mexican, nor yet a laboring man of a certain type, but a girl.
​He had seen some thousands of girls in his life, yet he found himself staring at the slim form on the horse as if he were gazing upon a miracle of nature. Every experience of the past few days might have been in some manner expected and he had only reacted because of qualities within himself; his experiences with Broken Fang and the coyote were wholly fitting in this wild, mountainous land, but he had never dreamed but that he had left all womankind a thousand miles behind him. This was a man's land, not a place for the tender flesh of girls. This was the home of savage beasts, a region of dark forests and forbidding peaks, never a land of gentleness and ease such as women should know. He realized with a start that evidently his good manners had been left behind him also, for he was gazing at her in open-mouthed astonishment.
If the girl on the horse had been an Indian squaw, even an aged and wrinkled frontiersman's dame, he would have felt that the axis of the world still stood at the proper angle. But this girl was white, in spite of her tan and the high color—not put on with a rabbit's foot—in her cheeks. She was young, not more than twenty-two at most. And strangest of all she was pretty past all denial.
Hugh felt as if there must be some mistake. Perhaps in these lonely days in the hills he had lost the power of discrimination. He hadn't seen a girl for endless weeks—centuries they ​seemed to him—and he had heard that such isolation affects the point of view. The girl might be white; by a long chance she might even be young; but by no possible circumstance had she a right to be pretty. Beauty dwelt in far cities, in gentle lands and distant, not in these rugged mountains. Yet the truth of his first observation became ever more apparent.
He steadied himself, closed his mouth, and tried to stand at his ease. The girl swung down from the horse. That motion, graceful as the leap of a deer, explained in a measure the mystery. It revealed a suppleness, a strength and litheness of body such as might stand the test of existence even on the frontier.
Hugh noted that she was a slender girl, rather tall, that she wore a soft felt hat over her chestnut hair, and that she had dark eyes under rather marvelous brows. Hugh was no amateur in regard to women. Now that he had regained his self-control he made a swift and unerring appraisal; yet found his amazement deepening at every instant. There was a freshness, an appeal about her slight figure, suggesting perfect health and superb physical development rather than weakness, and he was not blind to the gentleness and breeding in her soft features.
She seemed perfectly composed, wholly at ease. In her simplicity she found no embarrassment under his frank gaze. "Where's Dan?" she asked.
​Hugh straightened, somewhat startled. He had expected some sort of a formal greeting, a few words in apology or introduction, not this straight-out, uncompromising "Where's Dan?" It seemed to him she acted somewhat suspicious of him, also.
She had, he observed, a well-bred voice. She spoke in clear, level tones that pleased his ear. The voice was wholly lacking in affectation, but it was simply brimming and vibrant with health and high spirits. Hugh noticed something else, too, and smiled inwardly. He couldn't remember ever having been spoken to in just that way before. The level, impersonal tone implied an insurmountable social barrier between them. It was a somewhat similar tone, he remembered, to that in which he had occasionally spoken to a servant. In this case he obviously was the inferior.
He paused and reflected as to the whereabouts of Dan. The truth came to him in a moment. Dan of course referred to his predecessor. "He's dead," Hugh answered simply.
For the instant he was frightened. It occurred to him, when the words had gone too far to recall, that he should have been gentler. He might have prepared the girl, in some degree, for the shock. He didn't want her to faint. But if he had expected any hysteria or excitement he was doomed to a fresh surprise. She opened her eyes; and it seemed to Hugh that she closed her ​lips—in a fine, hard line—just for an instant. "Dead? " she repeated slowly. "Killed—or did he just die?"
"He was killed," Hugh answered in the straightforward way of one on a witness stand. "I found him dead in his tent. He'd been shot. The black dog was shot too."
"And who are you?"
Hugh wasn't exactly accustomed to this straight-out sort of questioning, but he mustered his faculties and made his answers. "Gaylord—Hugh Gaylord," he said simply. "And if you want me to I'll tell you all I know of this affair."
"Perhaps that would be the best plan," she agreed.
"I came over to the camp—to borrow something. I was with another chap—an Indian, Pete. We found this poor beggar dead. Pete started with him into the settlements to-day. It's a wonder you didn't meet him on the trail."
"He probably took the other fork, heading toward Seven Mile. I came up from Horse Creek."
As Hugh didn't know the two places apart, or what they represented, this information did not clear matters up for him to any great extent. "He left me here," Hugh went on, "and as I didn't have anything in particular to do—I took care of the sheep—until you could hire a regular herder."
The girl looked puzzled but made no ​immediate reply. "And you're not an experienced herder?"
"No. I've never worked—I've never worked at it before."
"Then how did you know what to do?"
"I didn't know. I let 'em do what they wanted to, and followed along."
Then the girl laughed,—for the first time. It was a tinkling, musical sound, inexpressibly girlish, and Hugh laughed boyishly himself. It was their first real moment of understanding; and it seemed to Hugh that a new impulse, a curious sense of impending events, a new stir and vitality had been born in the air. He might have wondered at the freshness and happiness in his own laugh, as much as in hers. It was an hour of miracles.
"You couldn't have done better—and I needn't tell you that you've probably saved me—and my father—hundreds of dollars. The coyotes and the wolves would have been busy all night and to-day. I'd be glad enough to pay you well for this time you've spent—and give you a steady job if you want it."
She spoke perfectly naturally, and Hugh knew that his torn and soiled clothes and his unshaven face had done their work. Obviously she never guessed his true position. He wondered how she explained his presence in the hills and his reasons for staying with the sheep.
She did have her own theories, but they were ​far indeed from the truth. Her mind leaped at once to what seemed to her the most plausible explanation,—that Hugh was a humble white man, friend of Pete's, possibly a laborer out of work, or a hungry wanderer from the East. He had taken the herder's place in hopes of securing a permanent position when the camp-tender returned.
"Before I decide to stay," Hugh replied steadily, "I'd like to know a few things."
"We'll pay you two dollars a day—and furnish you with supplies," she assured him soberly.
Hugh did not smile. After all, the wage was an important consideration. The girl was evidently a partner with her father in this sheep-raising venture, and possibly for the sake of economy but probably because of the acute shortage of labor (Hugh had not forgotten the Indian's words) had worked as camp-tender herself. Her perfect health, her strong, lithe body, a skill with horses and a wholesome scarcity of nonsense in her disposition had enabled her to fill the position well and in all probability to enjoy it.
Hugh studied her face with growing interest. In his sphere of life girls did not drive trains of pack horses into the rugged hills, do a man's work in the open, have dealings with uneducated herders, and still laugh like silver bells.
She wore, he noticed, a rather heavy revolver slung at her hip. Her hand was small and ​shapely, but it was also brown and firm. They would make, Hugh thought, a rather dangerous combination. The eyes, wide apart and bright, looked unusually healthy and clear, and Hugh imagined that they could see quite straight over revolver sights. The man understood why she had been able to ply her occupation in safety. Woe to the herder that would presume upon their isolation!
"Labor is scarce, I suppose?" Hugh asked. What he was really trying to find out was how long this position of sheep herder would be thrust upon him. He had yielded himself to enough folly for one day, and he had no intention of committing himself to a position as sheep herder for the rest of his natural life. As soon as they could find a substitute,—but Hugh didn't finish the sentence. He suddenly realized that thence on he had no plans.
The girl looked up, rather sober of face. "Good labor is very scarce," she agreed honestly. "But we can't pay more than two dollars a day. You see—you're inexperienced."
Secretly he thought that she was bluffing, that she would pay a much higher price to retain him as shepherd of the flock. But he didn't voice the thought. "Two dollars a day is all right," he said. "That wasn't what I was going to ask you. There's some other things I want to know—that I feel I have a right to know. That man was murdered, and the guide thought it was ​because of a fight between the sheepmen and cattlemen. I don't care to have some one come up here and find me murdered, too."
The girl seemed distressed. It was the first time since their meeting that she seemed to lack words. Then she looked up fearlessly.
"I wish I could tell you differently," she said. "A sheepwoman has no right to be honest, in these days. The Indian told you the truth. Dan was murdered, not for personal reasons, but because the cattlemen—a little, evil group of them—want to destroy this flock of sheep—just why I'll tell you later. And that's the chance you must take."
"It's a real chance?"
Again she flinched. "They seem to be willing to go to any lengths to beat us."
"But it's a chance worth taking," he said with a sudden lightness of heart. "I'll keep the job for a while at least."
He watched her face as he spoke, and he saw the light—as unmistakable as the dawn that he had seen come over the mountains—grow in her face. It was reward enough. The joy that he got out of the work itself was henceforth simply clear profit; for another motive—one that had just come into his life—justified beyond all question the expenditure of his time and the chance of death.
He didn't try to explain the matter to his own satisfaction. He only knew that he felt a great ​and resistless desire to help this straight young mountain girl in her venture, to take sides with her against the monstrous odds that opposed her. He had committed himself: he noticed with an inward laugh that the girl had not promised even to attempt to get another herder to take his place. And he felt vaguely and secretly glad.
The two of them started to drive the white flocks back to the camp.