n. The sheep were scattered over a mile or so of mesa, grazing
contentedly. The dogs, out-posted on either side of the flock, were
resting, but alert. To the left, some distance from the sheep, was the
canon-rim and a trail, gatewayed by two huge boulders, man-high, with
about enough space between them for a burro to pass. A horse could
hardly have squeezed through. Each night the sheep were headed for
this pass and worked through, one at a time, stringing down the trail
below which was steep and sandy. At the canon bottom was water and
across the shallows were the bedding-grounds and the camp. Pete,
drowsing in the sun, occasionally glanced up at the flock. He saw no
need for standing up, as Montoya always did when out with the band.
The sheep were all right--and the day was hot. Presently Pete became
interested in a mighty battle between a colony of red ants which seemed
to be attacking a colony of big black ants that had in some way
infringed on some international agreement, or overstepped the
color-line. Pete picked up a twig and hastily scraped up a sand
barricade, to protect the red ants, who, despite their valor, seemed to
be getting the worst of it. Black ants scurried to the top of the
barricade to be grappled by the tiny red ants, who fought valiantly.
Pete saw a red ant meet one of the enemy who was twice his size,
wrestle with him and finally best him. Evidently this particular black
ant, though deceased, was of some importance, possibly an officer, for
the little red ant seized him and bore him bodily to the rear where he
in turn collapsed and was carried to the adjoining ant-hill by two of
his comrades evidently detailed on ambulance work. "Everybody
scraps--even the bugs," said Pete. "Them little red cusses sure ain't
scared o' nothin'." Stream after stream of red ants hastened to
reinforce their comrades on the barricade. The battle became general.
Pete grew excited. He was scraping up another barricade when he heard
one of the dogs bark. He glanced up. The sheep, frightened by a
buzzard that had swooped unusually close to them, bunched and shot
toward the canon in a cloud of dust. Pete jumped to his feet and ran
swiftly toward the rock gateway to head them off. He knew that they
would make for the trail, and that those that did not get through the
pass would trample the weaker sheep to death. The dog on the canon
side of the band raced across their course, snapping at the foremost in