The other packs in supplies—food for herder, salt for sheep. Come every two weeks, maybe sooner, and camp-tender due here pretty soon. But he'll find—plenty sheep dead."
For once Hugh did not have to ask questions. The guide's last few words explained, in a measure, the motive for the murder. Without a herder and with only one dog left to care for the flocks, the beasts of prey would find easy hunting. "But we'll stop that game," Hugh said decidedly. "To-morrow morning—to-night, if you think we can make the trail, we'll go in and take this man's body to the coroner. Then the sheep owner can send up another herder."
Hugh looked up to find an odd, grim little smile at the guide's lips. It was a thing to notice: this dark savage was not given to smiling. "You don't know sheep," he explained. "You don't know Running Feet—what he can do in one night."
By intuition more than by actual interpretation of the words Hugh understood. He studied his guide with growing wonder. For the second time that day Pete had dropped back into his own speech. True, in this case the language itself was Hugh's own, but the idiom was, beyond all denial, savage. He had revealed for an instant something of the strange poetry of the Indian, as well as the Indian's imaginative interpretation of the wilderness. Running Feet, past all doubt, referred to some of the pred-
