# Shepherds of the Wild/Chapter 12

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Chapter XII
As the stars emerged and the little mountain wind sprang up and crept forth in its never-ending explorations of the thickets, the shepherdess explained all things to Hugh's satisfaction. But first there was supper: a meal the like of which he had never tasted before.
The girl cooked it. Hugh watched her, her swift, graceful motions, the ease and strength with which she went about her tasks, and he found an unlooked-for delight in the sight. She had brought fresh stores; and the meal—from Hugh's suddenly rejuvenated point of view—was more nearly a banquet. Were there not new potatoes, roasted in the ashes, flapjacks with syrup, a fresh, white-breasted grouse that she had beheaded with her pistol on the way out, and for dessert dried apples stewed to a succulency and tenderness that passed all description? Hugh had eaten some thousands of meals in his time. He had dined in the most famous cafes and restaurants of Europe, he had been at pretentious dinner parties. Yet he couldn't remember ever experiencing the simple and healthy zest for food, the sheer delight of eating, the amazing appetite that had come upon him now. No ​meal in his whole life had ever tasted so good or satisfied him more.
In the first place he had done a man's work. For the first time in recent years his body actually demanded food: plenty of it and soon, for he had missed his lunch; besides, he had that inner peace and satisfaction of a day's work completed. Then its very preparation made it appetizing,—the slim, sure hands of the girl, her brown arms flashing, the fragrant wood smoke, the long, impressive vista of the Rockies behind the camp.
After supper he helped her wash the camp dishes; then cut fir-boughs for her bed that was to be situated nearly a quarter of a mile away, across the meadow. The idea of being afraid of him seemingly didn't even occur to her. She would have slept out the same way had he been from any other class of men, and Hugh could understand how his predecessors had respected her heavy revolver. Then there was a quiet hour with his new-found friend, his pipe,—and the girl telling her story in the fire's glow.
"My father's name is Crowson—Ezra Crowson," she began in the direct mountain way. "And mine — out here we don't bother with last names—is Alice Crowson. You don't have to call me Miss, Mr. Gaylord ——"
"And by the same token," he replied, "my first name is Hugh."
"Then Hugh ——"
​"Then Alice ——" And they laughed across the fire. It had become quite easy to laugh at simple, wholesome pleasantries. Yet there was no familiarity here. Alice had told the truth: last names take time; and time, in the West, is precious. Names were designations of people, rather than people the representatives of names. Names didn't matter and people did.
"Dan called me Alice too," she went on, suddenly remembering to remind Hugh that he was in the same class, as far as privileges went, with his predecessors. "My father lives down at a place called Horse Creek—and unlike many sheepmen in the West, his whole capital is tied up in this one flock. He isn't a big sheepman—only a little one. That is what makes it so important that we win.
"He bought the stock from an old friend to whom he had loaned everything he had—and it was either take the sheep or lose everything. He wasn't an experienced sheepman. Otherwise he wouldn't have come here—where Landy Fargo and his gang control everything. You see, Hugh, they are cattlemen—managers—and they're part owners, too—for a number of rich men in the East. For years and years they've had everything their own way in regard to the range.
"Maybe, if you're an Eastern man, you don't understand about range. The Western stock business depends on having acres and acres of ​open land for the stock to run in through spring, summer, and fall, feeding them just in winter. The land is either privately owned, public domain, school lands or government national forest: in this case it is—except for this big track we have been using—public domain. Of course the sheepmen had just as much right to it as the cattlemen, but because they wanted to keep all the range for themselves, they've driven off every man who tried to run sheep in Smoky Land.
"Oh, it was easy to do. Sometimes they did it just by threatening, sometimes by poisoning the stock, and sometimes ——"
Hugh leaned forward. "By killing the herders?"
"Yes." The girl's lips set tight. "I didn't know they would go that far, but Fargo's got a new right-hand man now—a Mexican named José. He's used to killing—he learned it in the South—and I haven't a bit of doubt but that he shot Dan last night. Perhaps they've killed before, but before it was always open warfare, at least. They've always won—and for all I see they'll win now.
"You see, as far as public domain is concerned, they've got a certain right to oppose the sheepmen. They were the first here, and cattle won't feed after sheep. But in this case there's a wide track—almost a whole township—through the center of Smoky Land that isn't public domain but belongs to an old woman ​down at Boise. It is the best sheep range in the State, and father found out that the cattlemen weren't renting it. The old woman had tried to rent it to them, but they wouldn't take it. We found out why, later. They were using it without paying for it—and they thought that giving any money to this helpless old woman was just throwing it away. Incidentally it was all she had, and because there are no mills here, it is practically valueless except for range.
"Father thought that by renting it, the cattlemen would leave him alone. They had all the public domain; and in this way, there couldn't be any particle of doubt about his being in his rights, both lawfully and from the customs of the range. The rent for it—for a term of years—cost him what little money he had left.
"We've been at war ever since. We've got to hang on—it's ruin for father if he quits. If the cattlemen would take the lease off our hands—as is only fair—we might ship off the flock and get out without losing everything; but they won't do it. They'd sooner shoot and kill our herders. If you hadn't come along when you did last night—hundreds of sheep would be dead to-day from the coyotes and cougars. I'm two days early myself—the flock would be practically wiped out before the date I was expected to arrive. They have intimidated or bought up all the labor in the region so we can't get help—that partly is the reason why I'm doing this work.
​"It's got down now to a simple matter of holding on—for a few months more. In October we start the sheep down—we'll be nearer the settlements and the protection of law. Besides, a lot of the public domain becomes National Forest on the same date—by an act of Congress—and then there will be a big force of forest rangers here to protect us. If we can stay, and fight them off, and protect the flock until that time—we've won. But I'm almost tired of trying."
Her voice dropped from tone to tone, then ceased. The silence of the wilderness was left. Hugh glanced across the glowing coals, haunted by the girl's beauty, wondering at the flood of new emotions that swept over him. "I suppose—if I hadn't happened along—you'd not know where to look for another herder," he suggested.
She nodded slowly. "It would have pretty near been the end."
"And what if I should decide—to stay here clear through the summer, clear to the time to take the flocks down to the lower levels."
She looked up, a strange, brooding concern in her face. "I don't know that I have a right to ask you," she said slowly. "This isn't play, Hugh—it seems so natural to call you that. One man already has been killed. I don't know that I have a right to ask you to risk your life. But father is old—and he had such high hopes—and it means so much. No, I can't ask you to stay."
He leaned forward, more earnestness in his ​face than had ever dwelt there before. "But what if I wanted to stay—clear to the end?"
A curious luster was in her eyes. "I wouldn't dare believe it—and I wouldn't understand."
"And I'm not sure that I understand, either," he told her. "But my days have never been much use to me before. It's the first time I've ever had a chance to do something—not only for myself but somebody else—the first time I've really had an opening—to do something worth while."
She thought she understood. She knew the West—this mountain girl—and she knew a certain unfortunate breed of men that often come wandering down its long trails. Mostly they come from the busy cities in the East: human derelicts, men who have broken and failed in the struggle for existence. Sometimes they come looking for new opportunities, sometimes they are merely tramps, the wanderlust in their veins, more than often they are men of good families who have sunk to the lowest levels of life. She marked his well-bred speech, and she thought she knew his type. Her keen eyes saw the deep lines in his face, his bloodshot eyes, and she didn't understand how Dan's supply of whisky had been left intact. Possibly Hugh had failed to find it!
Perhaps he would want to go on, in a few more days; yet she couldn't banish the hope that he was of different stuff than most of his kind. "If ​you did stay—and help us out—we'd make it right with you in the end," she promised. No longer was she the employer, speaking from the heights. Her tone was almost pleading. "Perhaps you could buy a share in the business—and get a fresh start in life."
He suddenly got up and found a curious satisfaction in swinging mighty blows with the axe at the fir-log Dan had used for fuel. It acted as a relief valve for emotions that he felt would soon get away from him. He looked up, smiling boyishly. "I'll stay—to the end," he promised. "But Lord knows—I don't know anything about sheep."
"And you give me fresh heart."
Thus they made a pact in the firelight, and they had a few moments of sheer joy as she gave him simple directions as to how to take care of the flock, when to salt them, and how to direct their feeding. "And while you're telling me these things," the man said, "for Heaven's sake tell me about Spot."
"Of course you mean the yearling ram ——" Hugh nodded. "You must have learned a lot about sheep in one day—or you'd never have noticed him. Spot is a mystery—has been since he was born. And what has he been doing to-day?"
Hugh narrated with much enthusiasm the encounter between the flock leader and the coyote, so interested in the story itself that he quite failed ​to wonder and be amazed at his own unlooked-for lightness of heart, his buoyant spirits.
"It's typical of Spot," the girl said at the end. "Perhaps you've noticed that he's oversized—taller and stronger than the rest?"
"Yes ——"
"If it hadn't been for that, he would have likely been lamb stew long ago. He was exceptionally large at birth, and father had him retained partly because he was interested in his unusual coloring, and partly because he thought that his extra size would give him value as a ram. He endeared himself to the herder, and this year—he's a yearling ram but he's not yet mature—father let him run with the flock. None of us know what to make of him."
They got up, built the fire high so that its glow went out over the flock, and tried to get another glimpse of him. They found him easily enough, at the very foremost of the band, his brown color in vivid contrast to the whiteness of the ewes. And in finding him Alice made another, less pleasing discovery.
Hugh didn't understand at first. He saw that she was making some kind of a count, first leisurely, then in frantic haste. A troubled look came into her fresh face. Once more she verified the count, then turned to him with a rueful smile.
"My day's work is not yet over," she said slowly.
"Why not?" he demanded. ​"One of the markers—one of sixteen black ewes—is missing. Do you know what that means?"
"Good Heavens—that you've got to go out—in this dark forest—to look for him?"
"The ninety and nine," she quoted, still with the same, inscrutable smile. "But it isn't just one, Hugh. You see, sheep keep relatively the same position in the flock. Of course it might be just a single disaster—a coyote snatching her from the flanks—but ordinarily when one of the black sheep is gone, it means that a hundred or so others have gone with her. I can't take the chance."
His own face grew mournful. "You see—what a good herder I am. Lose a hundred sheep the first day."
"It happens to the best of herders."
"Then why can't I go out to look for them—and let you stay here? That's what I'm going to do."
"No. You must stay here. You don't know sheep yet, Hugh, and likely you don't know these mountains. The band of them is somewhere through the stretch you fed over to-day—and I would know just how and where to look for them. At night with no dog—the dog must stay here with you—you wouldn't be able to drive them. I even have to go on foot, so I can climb down into the steep canyons and go through the brush. It's part of the life of the camp-tender."
​"But you won't go—in this darkness ——"
"I'll wait till the moon rises. Besides, I know this Smoky Land from end to end. So don't be afraid for me."
They stood silent by the leaping flame. The sheep lay quiet, the shepherd dog slept at Hugh's feet. And subtly stealing into their consciousness above the sound of the leaping flame they heard the voice of the forest, mysterious and profound,—the little sounds of the wind in the thicket, the rustling of leaves, the hushed footfall of the wild creatures. Into that darkness Alice would venture for her lost sheep. Hugh felt a strange weight of dread.
Above the far mountains the clouds gleamed with the first beams of the rising moon.