take till dark to get to the sheep camp, but dark's the best time for a sheep-killin' dog to work, anyhow. The sheep are bunched together, and it doesn't take so much runnin'. And I got to be on hand to call 'em back and round 'em up when they're done."
The face of the Mexican was suddenly crafty. "I suppose wantin' to see the fun hasn't anything to do with your goin'?" he suggested.
Fargo laughed again. "I'm not sayin' it won't be worth watching," he agreed. "But you know I can always round 'em up with my whistle. José—to-night will see the end of the sheep business for time to come."
They went about their preparations. They ate their breakfast in the unsavory kitchen, then Jose rode off to the ranch where Newt Hillguard kept his little flock of thirty Shropshires. There was no particular good in making full explanation to Newt. He was a cattleman surely, his little flock was just a diversion with him, but he might not take fondly to any plan that would make sheep killers out of Fargo's pack of dogs. Some night they might escape from their yard and visit his own little flock. "The boys say they're tired of beef and want a mutton blowout," José explained, "and I'm sent over here to supply it. Will you sell me one of them sheep of yours?"
"Seems funny to me," Newt returned, "that
