All Wool

Ricky laid his cards on the rock and peered over Zeb’s shoulder.

“Look at that sheep, Zeb! What do yuh reckon ails him?”

“Never mind th’ sheep,” replied Zeb. “Yuh can’t git me to turn around so yuh can eat that jack. Go on, play it.”

“I tell yuh somethin’s wrong,” insisted Ricky. “That sheep jist turned uh flip-flop and he ain’t got up since.”

“Mebby that’s th’ way sheeps do,” remarked Zeb. “Yuh see me and you ain’t been nursin’ sheep but uh short time and we ain’t hep to all their proclivities.”

Ricky sat down and picked up his cards. “I’d shore like to know what hit that sheep. Honest, he jist——”

Sping!

A bullet ricocheted off the rock they were using for a card-table and whined off down across the foothills.

“Duck!” yelled Zeb, as he went crabwise down the opposite side of the rock and slid around behind the stunted pine tree which had shaded their seven-up game.

“Come down here, yuh blamed mutt!” he stormed at Ricky, who sat there looking at the scratch on the rock where the bullet had glanced. “Ain’t yuh got no sense a tall?”

“What was it, Zeb?” inquired Ricky innocently, as he slid down beside Zeb and pulled out his papers and tobacco.

“Somebody was shootin’ at us,” stated Zeb. “And danged good shootin’ too if anybody should ask yuh.”

Ricky shaped his cigaret and fumbled for a match.

“Say, Zeb, I wonder if them same jaspers didn’t hit that sheep? By golly! I’ll bet that was it. Mebby—aw say, Zeb, if that was uh rifle-bullet why don’t we hear th’ report?”

Zeb smiled patronizingly and relieved Ricky of his tobacco.

“Ricky, them high-power rifles kin shoot three miles, and they don’t make much noise a-tall. At this distance yuh wouldn’t hear it a tall, sabe?”

Ricky got up and climbed back on the rock. He gazed off in the direction from which the bullet had come and then sat down and began dealing the cards.

“Come on up, Zeb,” he urged. “Three miles is uh long ways to see uh target and th’ man who can hit me at that distance is plumb welcome to cut uh notch on his gunstock, and besides it’s too danged hot out there in th’ sun.”

Zeb climbed back and sat down against the tree.

“Ricky, I plumb wish we hadn’t taken this job.”

“Unha,” agreed Ricky, intent on his solitaire layout.

“Yes, sir, I am,” continued Zeb. “I knowed something was wrong when Jim Watts offers us uh hundred apiece uh month to dry nurse these darn animated wool gardens. Ricky, uh hundred dollars uh month is too much money to pay uh sheep-herder. Didn’t yuh ever notice it?”

Ricky laid down the cards and laughed.

“Too much? Why, Zeb, I’d herd sheep for uh million dollars uh month. Honest, there ain’t no large amount uh money that would be too big to tempt me to herd sheep.”

“Ricky,” pronounced Zeb, “yo’re as funny as th’ dobie itch. No man pays that price unless thar’s uh mighty good reason.”

Ricky swept up the cards and put them in his pocket, and then settled himself comfortably.

“Zeb Whitney, every day is th’ first of April to you. If I was as suspicious as you are I’d git arrested. Jist because we’re uh long ways from home and in uh strange land, and cause uh feller likes our looks and gives us uh job takin’ care of his woolen meal-tickets at so much per care, you immediately and soon gits th’ idea that there’s uh brick under th’ hat. Look at th’ doughnut fer uh while, Zeb, and quit lookin’ at th’ hole in th’ center.”

Zeb shook his head solemnly.

“Did yuh notice that there ain’t no dogs connected with this outfit? Did yuh notice how scared that greaser was when we come and how quick he rolled his blankets and beat it? And also did yuh notice,” he continued before Ricky had a chance to reply, “that Watts said he would give us a fat bonus if we kept th’ herd here for two months?”

“What’s th’ answer?” yawned Ricky.

“Sheep war.”

“Haw! Haw!” laughed Ricky. “Sheep war, eh? Who are th’ sheep goin’ to fight?

By golly, Zeb, if these sheep want to start anything I’ll——”

“Have uh little sense!” growled Zeb. “Listen. I seems to remember readin’ uh few weeks ago about trouble brewin’ between th’ sheep and cattle men some place—believe I reads it in th’ Breeder’s magazine.”

“Uh course this would have to be th’ place,” replied Ricky sarcastically. “Yuh don’t remember where it was, Zeb, but this shore must be it. Trouble jist simply stalks in yore footsteps—curses!”

“Well, anyway,” stated Zeb, “Watts will be back here in uh couple uh weeks with fresh grub and then I’ll have uh li’l heart-to-heart talk with him.”

“Yes, and jist about git into an argument with him and lose us our jobs. Let’s haze them burr catchers back to camp and git some grub.”

The hazing part was easier said than done. It had been easy to let the herd wander away from the bed ground in the cool of the morning but it was a different task to round up three thousand sheep in the evening without the aid of dogs and herd them back to the shelter of the little valley. Ricky and Zeb were cow-punchers by nature, and this walking and running after sheep was not by any means delightful. It was dark when they got back to camp and both were fagged out.

“Now, I reckon you’ll remark that uh hundred uh month is too much pay, eh?” exploded Ricky, as he threw himself down on a blanket inside the tent and nursed a sore hip where an excited ram had hit him on the run. “Touch off that fire and let’s git something to eat.”

The fire had been laid since morning. Zeb, knowing that in all probabilities they would both be tired when night came, had thoughtfully laid a fire in the sheet-iron stove before leaving.