, helping up those that had
fallen or dragging away the dead.

Worn and foot-sore, with their noses stuck full of cactus joints,
their tongues swollen from the envenomed thorns, their stomachs afire
from thirst and the burden of bitter stalks, the wild cattle from the
ridges would stagger down to the river and drink until their flanks
bulged out and their bellies hung heavy with water. Then, overcome
with fatigue and heat, they would sink down in the shade and lie
dreaming; their limbs would stiffen and cramp beneath them until they
could not move; and there they would lie helpless, writhing their
scrawny necks as they struggled to get their feet under them. To these
every day came Hardy with his rawhide _reata_. Those that he could not
scare up he pulled up; if any had died he dragged the bodies away from
the water; and as soon as the recent arrivals had drunk he turned them
away, starting them on their long journey to the high ridges where the
sheep had not taken the browse.

Ah, those sheep! How many times in the fever of heat and work and
weariness had Hardy cursed them, his tongue seeking unbidden the
wickedest words of the range; how many times had he cursed Jim Swope,
and Jasper Swope, the Mexicans, and all who had rushed in to help
accomplish their ruin. And as the sun beat down and no clouds came
into the sky he cursed himself, blindly, for all that had come to
pass. One man--only one--at the mouth of Hell's Hip Pocket, and the
sheep might have been turned back; but he himself had seen the
dust-cloud and let it pass--and for that the cattle died. The sheep
were far away, feeding peacefully in mountain valleys where the pines
roared in the wind and the nights were cool and pleasant; but if the
rain came and young grass sprang up on Bronco Mesa they would come
again, and take it in spite of them. Yes, even if the drought was
broken and the cattle won back their strength, that great army would
come down from the north once more and sheep them down to the rocks!
But one thing Hardy promised himself--forgetting that it was the
bootless oath of old Bill Johnson, who was crazy now and hiding in the
hills--he would kill the first sheep that set foot on Bronco Mesa, and
the next, as long as he could shoot; and Jasp Swope might answer as he
would.

Yet, why think of sheep and schemes of belated vengeance?--the grass
was gone; the browse was cleaned; even the _palo verde_ trees were
growing scarce. Day by day he must