night hours began their stealthy march, one after one, across the spaces of the wilderness. The two men had only a few more sentences of conversation. The silence and the mystery had seemingly taken out of Hugh all desire to talk.
"You told the truth, Pete, when you said this job was almost over," Hugh remarked from his blankets. "And I've been thinking of something. If you'd help me load it on, I might be able to pack that poor devil down to the settlements by myself. You could stay here, and I could hunt up the flock owner and get him to give you a steady job as herder. He'd be grateful enough to you for staying to watch his sheep so that he'll gladly do it. How would you like that?"
The Indian grunted. "Me no sheep herder," he said distinctly.
Hugh marked the tone with some surprise. Its inference could not well be mistaken. Evidently Pete felt himself much above such an occupation.
"I thought you might like to be," Hugh responded pleasantly.
"No. Only dagoes and Mexicans sheep herders. I'm a guide. Other herder got shot. Maybe I get shot too."
Hugh didn't pursue the subject further. After all, he couldn't blame the man. By the code of the West it was degrading work; besides, the war with the cattlemen made it as perilous
