ross it, the tears came to his eyes and blinded his
keen vision. Here at last was the end of all his struggles and all his
dreams; another year, or two years, and the mesa would be devastated
utterly; his cows would be hollow-flanked and gaunted; his calves
would totter and die, their tender lips pierced with the spiny cactus
upon which their hard-mouthed mothers starved; and all that fair land
which he knew and loved so well would be lost to him forever. He
raised his hand to his eyes as if shading them from the sun, and
brushed the tears away.

"Well, look at those sons o' guns hike," he said, baring his teeth
venomously, "and every band headed for Hidden Water! Go it, you
tarriers--and if you can't stop to eat the grass, tromple on it! But
wait, and if I don't push in some Greaser's face to-day it'll be
because every one of them bands is headin' for the western pass."

He clambered slowly down from his perch and swung up into the saddle.

"Talkin' never did do much good with a sheep-herder," he observed
wisely. "As the old judge used to say, 'you've got to appeal to his
better nature'--with a club."

The most southerly of the seven bands was strung out in marching
order, the goats in front, the hungriest sheep in the lead; and on
both flanks and far behind, the groups and clusters of feeders,
pushing out into the grassy flats and rearing up against the trees and
bushes. Without a word to the herders Creede and Hardy took down their
ropes and, swinging the _hondas_ upon the goats, turned the advance
guard northwest. The main herd and the drag followed, and then the
herders, all in a bunch for courage.

"This is the last time I talk to you," said Creede, his voice stifled
with anger. "Turn to the north, now, and keep a-goin'."

He put spurs to his horse and rode west to the second herd, and by
noon they had turned all seven toward the western pass. Every herder
had his cow's horn and some of them were blowing continually, but no
one answered, and a messenger was sent east for aid. They camped for
the heat of the day, making smoke upon the ridges, but no help came.
As the sun sank low and the curly-necked Merinos rose up from their
huddle and began to drift the Mexicans turned them perforce to the
north, looking back sulkily toward the mouth of Hell's Hip Pocket
where other smokes rose against the sky. Until the sun set they
travelled, making their three miles and more, and not until they had
corralled their floc