completed the cooking of breakfast that the guide had already started. He watched with an extraordinary fascination the grim, certain motions of the Indian as he prepared the herder's body for the day's journey. The animal was saddled, the stiffening form tied on. Hugh helped put out the fire—the last act of a real woodsman when he breaks camp—and laid out food for the dog. A few moments more and they were ready to go.
"You're sure you won't stay—and take a job as sheep herder?" Hugh asked.
"Not me," the Indian replied. "Herder shot—me shot next."
"There's no reason for thinking you would be shot."
"You don't know cattlemen—Landy Fargo—José Mertos—Besides—Pete got other work to do."
Perhaps it was true. The guide had other work to do. Hugh glanced toward the flock. The animals were not bunched so closely now, and some of the lambs were feeding at the very margin of the river. Their numbers, now that they were widely spread, seemed greater than ever.
The shepherd dog came running to him, and Hugh bent to caress him for the last time. He held the head in his hands and looked into the brown eyes. The dog's gaze did not flinch as is usual when his majesty, man, looks into the eyes
