man, was carried away in spite of himself by
the temptation of a listener; after many days of strife and turmoil,
cutting trails, standing off cowmen, cursing Mexicans, at last to meet
a white man who would just sit silent and let him talk! His stories
were of hunting and fishing, of prospecting, and restless adventures
among the Indians, and every time the conversation worked around
towards sheep he led it resolutely away. And for his part, never for a
moment did Hardy try to crowd him, but let the talk lead where it
would, until of his own volition the sheepman told his story.

"I suppose you wonder what I'm doing down here," he said at last, "if
I was so stuck on the Concho country? Well, I bet you wouldn't guess
in a thousand years--and you ought to be a pretty good guesser, too,"
he added, with a gruff laugh. "Now, what do you think it was that put
me on the bum?"

"Poker game?" queried Hardy politely.

"Nope," replied the sheepman, showing his teeth, "I'm winners on
poker."

"You don't look like a drinking man."

"Naw--nor it wasn't women, either. It's something unusual, I tell you.
I stood and looked at it for ten years, and never turned a hair. But
here, I've been holdin' out on you a little--I never told you what it
was I raised on my ranch. Well, it was sheep."

"Sheep?" echoed Hardy, "did you keep 'em there all Winter?"

"W'y sure, man. There's lots of sheep in Apache County that was never
ten miles from home."

"Then why does Jim Swope bring his bands south every Fall? I hear he
loses five per cent of them, at the least, coming and going."

"Ah, you don't understand Jim as well as I do. I was tryin' to make a
livin'; he's tryin' to git rich. He's doin' it, too."

Once more the note of bitterness came into his voice, and Hardy saw
that the time had come.

"How's that?" he inquired quietly, and the sheepman plunged into his
story.

"Well, it was this way. I kept a few thousand sheep up there in my
valley. In the Summer we went up the mountain, followin' the grass,
and in the Winter we fed down below, where the ground was bare. It
never got very cold, and my sheep was used to it, anyhow. The Navajos
don't move their sheep south, do they? Well, they're away north of
where I was. We jest give 'em a little shelter, and looked after 'em,
and, as I says, I was doin' fine--up to last year."

He paused again, with his secret on his lips, and once more Hardy
supplied the helping word.

"And what happ