Suddenly there was a cry from Sandy.

He threw down the staff and sprang to his feet.

"The herd!" he shouted. "They're off!"

Sure enough! Without a cry the leaders had started for the rimrock, and in their wake—straight for the face of the precipice—was running the entire flock.

"They're startled!" gasped Sandy. "We must head 'em off. Run for your life! We must get between the brainless creatures and the cliff before they go over."

Donald ran. He had never run so before. His training as a track sprinter stood him in good stead now. But he had never been a long-distance runner. Two hundred yards was his limit. Moreover he was not in training. But he ran—ran as he did not know he could run. He gained on the sheep. Sandy, in the meantime, was waving his arms to the dogs who, understanding his slightest motion, now dashed ahead. The sheep, however, were far in advance by this time. On they sped in mad panic. Donald could run no more. He began to lag, his heart beating like a hammer. Even Sandy, who from the opposite direction was racing for the edge of the rock, slackened his pace.

The race was a hopeless one.

Then without warning, out of the trees at the left side of the field rode a horseman at full gallop. With flying hoofs he cut in ahead of the herd just as they neared the face of the rock.

The leaders swerved, circled, and turned about. The gait of the stampeding flock lessened. The dogs skilfully steered the approaching sheep out to one side where Sandy scattered them that they might not collide with the ranks coming toward them. Gradually the fears of the flock became quieted. Falling into a walk they worked their way into their customary places and turned about, feeding as they went.

Immediately when Sandy saw them safe he pressed forward to the side of the horseman where he beckoned Donald to join him.

"I spied your plight from the ridge above, Sandy McCulloch," called the rider. "The rest of the Crescent herd has gone in to the Reserve and I have had my eye out for you for days. I thought it was about time that you were coming along."

"It's a good turn you've done me this day, Sargeant," Donald heard Sandy say.

"You have done many a favor for me."

"Dinna be talking. It is little I ever did for you. An errand or two perhaps, or carrying a message—but what is that? Any man would be glad to do the same. To-night, though, you have saved my whole herd. We should not have had a sheep left. Here is Master Donald Clark, the son of our owner," went on Sandy, as Donald came nearer. "Let him thank you. Don, this soldier is one of the government rangers."

Leaning from his saddle the horseman put out his hand.

"I am proud," he said, "to meet one of the owners of Crescent Ranch. If you are learning about the range, Master Clark, you cannot be in better company than to be with Sandy McCulloch. There is little about sheeping that he doesn't know; nor is there a cleaner-handed herder to be found. We never need to see his permit or count his sheep. He is no lawbreaker!"

"I hope none of our men are," replied Donald, shyly.

"Crescent Ranch has always had the reputation of being run on the square. We have no complaint to make," was the ranger's answer.

"We—my father means that it shall be," the boy asserted modestly.

"I do not doubt he does. You will have trouble, though, I fear, in finding another manager who can match Old Angus—or even Johnson. They were rare men who were famed throughout the county for their honesty and common sense."

"We shall try to find some other manager as good."

"May you be so fortunate. Good luck to you!"

With a wave of his hand the ranger cantered into the darkness and was soon lost from sight.

"You see, don't you, Don, that the rangers are not our natural born enemies after all," said Sandy, with a good-humored smile that bared his glistening teeth.

"I should say not!"

"They are all like that if we but live up to our part of the bargain. I never yet met a ranger who was not friendly and kind. But you cannot have folks for your friends if you do not meet them half-way."



CHAPTER VIII

DONALD HAS A SURPRISE

It was something of a disappointment when one morning a week or two later the camp-tender, who had scrambled up over the rimrock, informed Donald that he was to return to the central camp where his father would meet him, and take him back to Crescent.

"The ponies are tethered just below, so you can ride down along with me," said the Mexican. "There is nothing the matter, only your father has more than he can do with but Thornton and Green to help him. He needs you for a while. He told me to tell you that in a few weeks you might come back."

Donald looked regretfully at Sandy.

"I'm sorry to go, Sandy. I promised, though, that I would return to Crescent whenever father wanted me; of course I am anxious to help him all I can. I cannot realize that it is June, and that I have been two months on the range. What a jolly time we have had! It seems a pity to go and leave you here by yourself."

"It would not be the first time I have been alone in the hills," smiled Sandy.

"He'll not be by himself either," put in Pete, the Mexican, "for Tobin came up over the trail with me and is to bear Sandy company."

Donald's face brightened.

"I know you'll not be lonely, Sandy," he said, "but suppose anything happened to you—what if you happened to be hurt as Johnson was?"

"Aye, poor Johnson! What do they hear from him, Pete?"

"Mr. Clark has been to Glen City a number of times to see him. He is getting on finely! The ribs are mending and the hip, too. His heart is the trouble now; he is breaking his heart for Crescent and the range. The doctor says that he will never be able to come back to the ranch. Mr. Clark is going to settle him and his wife on a farm of their own in California, where their son is."

"Oh, I am very glad!" cried Donald. "Father said he should always look out for Johnson because he had been so faithful."

"It is like your father to do it—and like your grandfather, too, Don. May you be as good a man! Now get your traps together and be off with Pete. It's many a time I'll be thinking of you after you are gone, laddie."

"But you know I am coming back in a few weeks, Sandy."

"There's long weeks and short weeks; it all depends on what you're doing," was Sandy's whimsical answer. "Now be off. Why, you'd think I was seeing you to India instead of just down to the lowlands!"

As he dropped over the rimrock, Donald tried to laugh. It was not until he was mounted upon the little Mexican pony that he gained courage to look up. Outlined against the sky Sandy was standing on a point of rock, waving his sombrero. That was the last Donald saw of him.

Chatting as they rode down the mountainside the boy and Pete pressed forward over the trail. At noon they dismounted and lunched on salt-pork and pilot bread. Then off they cantered again. The tiny ponies, sure-footed as mules, made their way over the steep inclines of the hilly country with astonishing daintiness, but although they maintained a fair and even speed it was sunset when the white top of the prairie schooner came into sight, drawn up beside a stream and sheltered by a group of great trees. Several Mexican ponies were pastured near it. The curtains at the end of the wagon were parted and fastened back and inside Donald could catch a glimpse of Manuel, the Mexican cook, busily preparing the food. A curl of faint smoke rose from the tin pipe which protruded through the canvas, arching the top of the wagon. Then as Donald looked, into the clearing came the erect figure of his father.



The boy gave a shrill whistle on his fingers and touched the spurs to his horse's flank.

"Father!" he called.

Another moment and the panting pony stood still near the wagon, his sides heaving.

Donald dismounted and ran to meet his father.

"Well, well!" was Mr. Clark's first exclamation. "How is this? I sent a pale-faced American boy to the range and I get an Indian in exchange!"

"I suppose I am tanned," laughed Donald. "I know my hands are. As for my face—I have not seen it since I started. We don't have looking-glasses in the hills."

"And you enjoyed your trip?"

"I had the time of my life, father! It is simply bully up there. I wish you had been along."

"I am planning to go back with you in two or three weeks. It seemed a pity to bring you down, but I did need you, Don. If it had only been that I missed you I should not have sent, no matter how much I wanted to see you."

"I was glad to come, sir. How is everything at Crescent?"

"Going well. We are getting in a big crop of alfalfa from the south meadow. That is why I wanted you. You will now have to turn farmer and pitch hay for a while."

"All right!"

And that was what Donald did. For the next few weeks he was busy helping his father harvest the first crop of alfalfa grass, drying it, and storing it away in the great sprawling barn of the home ranch for winter feed. Days of hard work were succeeded by nights of heavy slumber. Life was very real. The boy was doing something—something that told—something that was of use to other persons; he had a place to fill, duties for which he was responsible. Continually he found himself speaking of "our ranch" and suggesting to his father that "we" do such and such things.

Mr. Clark rubbed his hands with satisfaction. Although he and Donald had always preserved a close comradeship no experience had ever drawn them so near together as had this common interest. It was happiness to each of them. From the time the boy tumbled out of bed in the early morning until he tumbled in again at dusk his whistle could be heard shrill above the click of mowing-machines, and the tramp of horses' hoofs.

At last came the day when the last load of alfalfa was housed under cover; then Mr. Clark said to Thornton:

"Well, Thornton, there seems to be nothing more for which we shall be needed at present. You can deal out the rations and send them to the three central camps without me; you can also order necessary supplies from Glen City. Some repairs remain for you to oversee, but I am sure you fully understand about them, and can manage them without my help. To-morrow, therefore, if the day is fine, Donald and I will set out for the range, I think."

Donald threw his hat into the air.

"To join Sandy, father?" he asked eagerly.

"That is my plan."

"Hurrah!"

Mr. Clark looked amused at his enthusiasm.

"One would think you a born shepherd, Don, instead of a boy who has only been out on the range with a herder."

"Why do you call Sandy just a herder, father?" Donald asked, seeming to fear that the term was a slight to his friend the Scotchman.

"Because he is a herder, son. A shepherd is a man who herds or tends his own sheep—sheep that belong to him; a herder, on the contrary, is a man hired to care for other people's sheep. There is a great difference, you see. Generally speaking, a shepherd will take more pains with a flock than a herder will on the principle that we are more interested in our own possessions than in those which are not our own."

"No one could take better care of sheep, father, than Sandy does."

"I feel sure of that," agreed his father, gravely. "In fact all our herders are honest men—I am convinced of it. After the next shearing I mean to give to each man a small band of sheep for his own. He may run them with the flocks, sell the wool, and keep the money as a nest-egg. The men deserve a share in the profits of Crescent Ranch and I should like them to have it in return for their splendid spirit of loyalty."

"Even Thornton?"

Mr. Clark hesitated.

"I have been watching Thornton," he admitted slowly. "That is why I kept him with me, and why I stayed behind."

"Why, I never thought of that being the reason!"

"It was my chief reason."

"But now you are going off and leaving Thornton alone," Donald said, somewhat puzzled.

"Yes, and I am leaving him in a position of trust, too. The supplies and much of our business is in his hands. He knows it. If he proves himself worthy, I shall appoint him, when we leave here, as manager in Johnson's place; if he abuses the confidence I am placing in him he will force me to appoint some one else. I wish to be perfectly fair."

"But I do not like Thornton," declared Donald.

"We must never be guided by our prejudices, Don."

"And anyway," went on the boy, "I don't see how you will know what he is doing. You will be miles away in the hills. He could do almost anything he chose. Have you left some one to watch him, father?"

"No, indeed, son. That would be a mean method; don't you think so? To set a trap for a man, or to spy upon him would be contemptible!"

Donald hung his head, ashamed of the suggestion.

"No," continued Mr. Clark less severely, "I have left no one on guard over Thornton but himself. I am really trusting him."

"You will never find out what he does, then."

"Yes, I shall."

"I don't see how."

"Thornton himself shall tell me."

Donald gasped.

"He never will tell you, father!" announced the boy positively.

"Wait and see. Now let us think no more of Thornton, for it is of Sandy that we are to talk. He has a great surprise for you."

"A surprise for me!"

"Yes."

Mr. Clark studied the lad's mystified expression with pleasure.

"A surprise for me!" repeated Donald. "What can it be!"

"You will see."

"Aren't you going to tell me?"

"No, not a word. It would spoil Sandy's fun."

"A surprise!" reiterated Donald over and over.

As they rode from the central camp up over the rough trail Don speculated constantly as to what could be in store for him. It seemed a long journey for he was impatient to solve the waiting enigma. What surprise could Sandy have concocted? At the border of the Reserve they met the ranger who chanced to be patrolling that portion of the government line. He remembered Donald very well and greeted him kindly; he also had a cordial word for Mr. Clark. Donald, however, begrudged even this brief delay and was glad when they plunged into the woods and were on their way through the National Forest.

Pete, the Mexican camp-tender who had come with them as guide, knew the country as an American boy knows his A B C's. He hunted out sheltered nooks where they could camp at night, taking great care to build the fire on a rocky base that it might not set ablaze the brush and litter of pine-needles about them.

"Many a careless shepherd sets a forest fire through being thoughtless," he said. "Acres of timber will be burned off a hillside by one person who did not put out his fire, or scattered sparks in the dried underbrush. Old Angus trained us Crescent men always to build our fires on a flat rock if we could; then there is no danger of our doing damage in the reserve or elsewhere."

"It is a wise plan," Mr. Clark said heartily. "I wish all herders were as careful."

So they journeyed on—now in the sunlight of the plateaus, now in the shadows of the forest. Then one morning they suddenly emerged into an emerald meadow glowing with sunshine. There a beautiful sight met Donald's eye.

Spread out like a fan the herd was grazing on the rich herbage of the mountain pasture, their backs to the brilliant light as was their wont. But of these details Donald was not conscious. What held him spellbound was the miracle that had happened in his absence. Now he knew the surprise that Sandy had for him! Beside every ewe in the flock stood a tiny white lamb!



CHAPTER IX

A SECOND ADVENTURE

Donald's delight at being back on the range was equaled only by Sandy's pleasure at having him there. The first thing, of course, was to display the lambs to the boy and Mr. Clark.

With no little pride the Scotchman led the newcomers over the pasture, pointing out the finest blooded creatures in the flock.

"One would think, Sandy, that you were a mother hen with a brood of chicks!" laughed Donald's father. "Well, you have a right to be pleased with your herd. You have a fine lot of lambs."

"They are no so handsome just now, sir," Sandy chuckled. "But give them time! A few weeks more, and a winsome sight they'll be."

"Are—are—lambs always so long-legged?" queried Donald timidly, anxious not to hurt Sandy's feelings. "These seem to have no bodies at all—just legs."

"That is their nature, lad. They have only enough body to keep their legs alive. Young lambs are ever like that. Later they fill out. It is their strong legs that enable them to travel with the flock as soon as they are three or four weeks old. But I am proud of them—legs or no legs. Now that they are here, our next task is to bring them through alive. We have lost but a few thus far. Luckily we had several sets of twins, so we have been able to give a lamb to every mother sheep that lost her baby. We fasten the strange lamb inside the skin of the dead one, and the mother is as well pleased as if she had her own back again."

"What a funny idea!" Donald said.

"Yes, isn't it? You see sheep recognize their young merely by scent. The power of smell is remarkably keen in all sheep. They can tell their babies no other way. We do not want any of the ewes grieving because they have no lamb—they do grieve, poor things—so we have to fool them a little. It is a fair thing to do because the ewes with twins do not need two. They are just as happy with one," explained Sandy.

"And now you will have a big, big flock to take care of, won't you, Sandy?"

"Aye! There is much more to do now. I am glad you have come back, Don, for I can put you to work."

"You must put me to work also, Sandy," Mr. Clark observed, smiling.

Sandy shook his head.

"Well, I reckon not. It would be a fine thing for me to be asking a gentleman like you to put your hand to anything, now wouldn't it!"

Evidently the idea amused the herder.

"Why not?" Mr. Clark asked seriously. "I am used to putting my hand to much hard work when I am at home. Everybody in this world works one way or another. Some of us work with our heads, some with our hands; but so long as it is all honest, helpful work and we do it the best we can, we are all on equal footing, Sandy. Now if you were in my office in Boston I might be teaching you kinds of work that would be new to you; here you can teach me. Try and forget everything, and just consider me a person who is interested in sheep and wants to learn about them. Let me join Donald in helping all I can."

"I'll take you at your word then, sir, since you urge me. I'm no denying it will make matters simpler. There is enough to do—more than enough, and extra help will be welcome. Luigi will be going down with the ponies, I suppose, sir."

"Yes, he is to take them back, and stay and aid Thornton at the ranch."

"Then you will have a place to fill right away, Mr. Clark. Some of the men who have been helping have gone down already, but I have kept Tobin and a couple of the Mexicans. Still it is no so easy to protect so many lambs from the coyotes. Lambing time is their great feasting season. A coyote is a mean creature, sir. Yet despise 'em as you may you cannot help admiring their cunning. There is no smarter animal alive than a coyote!"

"Tell us about them."

Sandy dropped down on a rock beside Mr. Clark and Donald.

"A coyote, as of course you know, is a wee bit wolf, about the size of a fox, and there is no feed he enjoys so well as a young lamb. Coyotes seem to know when the lambs come and they make ready to raid the flocks. You'd think folks would be bright enough to catch 'em, but there ain't wit enough in the world to get ahead of them. They're the cutest! The tricks a coyote will invent, sir, pass belief. In spite of the fact this pasture is fenced with coyote-proof wire the creatures manage to get in—goodness only knows how."

"Have they bothered you much, Sandy?"

"Have they! Haven't we built fires round the herd every night and patrolled the whole distance, back and forth, until light? Luigi, Bernardo, Carlos, and I have been on our feet from twilight until sunrise, tramping like sentinels; yet with all our care we have lost six lambs already. Six is not many when you consider the numbers some herders lose, still it is just six too many. So you see if Luigi goes down over the trail to-day with the ponies we can find work for you and Donald to-night."

"Oh, I think it will be great fun to patrol!" cried Donald.

"Think you so? Well, mayhap you will find it sport, since you haven't been doing it night after night for two weeks, lad."

Donald regarded him good-naturedly.

"There will be plenty of work waiting you by day, too," Sandy went on. "Just now we are busy inserting the flock mark in the ear of each lamb—a metal button with a crescent on it. The next ranch to ours is Anchor Ranch, and their herd is marked with an anchor, while down beyond lies Star Ranch. It behooves us to keep close track of our herds and mark them carefully. Then in addition to the marking we must dock the tails of the lambs lest they become foul; and we must record every lamb. We have a book where we enter the number of the mother and opposite it the number of her lamb. That is the way we keep track of the breeds."

"Why, I had no idea you had so many things to do, Sandy," said Donald. "It is almost as bad as taking the census."

"It is, and it all has to be done correctly, too. You can look up in the books the history of every sheep we have at Crescent Ranch. The pure breed lambs have to be registered with the Breed Secretary, you know."

"Sheep-raising seems to lead from one thing into another," reflected Donald. "In the East none of us ever think of all that the wool goes through before it is made into clothes for us."

"It is better than any story," was Sandy's reply. "Herders get tired of it sometimes, but I never do. Sheeping is in my blood, I reckon. What with herding and trailing the flock, what with bears, and bob-cats, and cougars, and coyotes—I dinna see how it would ever be dull."

"That is because you love your work, Sandy," said Mr. Clark.

"I do. Take me from the ranch, sir, and blindfold me even, and I verily believe I'd find my way back again. Now a bit more about the coyotes. If you are to be of help you must hear all I can tell you so that you will know the better how to fight 'em. Sometimes they'll yelp like a dog and trick you into thinking your own collies are in trouble; but do not trust them. 'Twill be no collies but themselves that are barking. Again they will cheat you into believing that they are far away, so gentle will be their cry; that is to throw you off the track. Or they will bark in two keys as if there were twice as many of them as there really are. They are the canny ones! Then when you pick up your gun and go where you think they are, they will no be there; 'twill be at a different spot they are at work."

"Well, Don," said Mr. Clark, "I do not see but you and I have something ahead of us. I am afraid we shall be of very little help, Sandy. Why, one ought to be an expert to catch such a gamester as a coyote!"

"Then you're no grudging us the loss of six lambs, Mr. Clark."

"I do not see how you did so well—to lose only six in a great flock like this!"

"But even so, sir, I was that wrathful when I found I had been outwitted I could have cried. You see six or seven coyotes put their heads together, as they have a way of doing, and cut a group of lambs off from the herd—got between them and the flock. It took the dogs to drive 'em away. Robin and the Prince are great fighters, and Colin is not far behind. Before we got rid of them, though, we had lost three lambs. The next time they tried a different trick: part of them barked and drew the dogs to a corner of the pasture, and then the rest came down on the unprotected end of the fold and carried away three more lambs."

"Is there nothing that will stop them?" asked Donald.

"We have tried many things. Some herders put strychnine in the carcasses of dead lambs and poison a few of the coyotes; most of them are too clever to be caught that way, though. The government has also killed many. Perhaps to-night, Don, you may have a share in the good work. But I warn you do not send a bullet through one of my dogs, thinking his barking is the yelp of one of these range thieves."

"Indeed I'll be careful," Donald promised, as he sprang up and ran to the edge of the rimrock to wave a good-bye to Luigi, who was disappearing round a curve of the trail.

"The lad is happy as a king here on the range, Sandy," Mr. Clark remarked.

"He takes to it as if he had been bred on the hills, sir."

"I wish he might like the work well enough to go into the business with me some time."

"There is no telling. He is but young yet. When he is old as I, mayhap he may choose to settle down and be a wool-grower."

"How old are you, Sandy?"

"I should be near thirty, sir, I'm thinking, though I haven't always had a birthday cake out here on the hills," was the whimsical reply.

"Thirty! A rare age for such a level head as yours!"

"I dinna ken about the head, Mr. Clark. My father used to say it was the heart that counted most. Now what say you to a basin of hot lentil soup?" inquired the Scotchman, changing the subject. "You and Donald must be hungry."

"I believe we are. Let us go down to the tent. I see Donald there already, building the fire."

After having eaten a hearty meal they left the flock which was resting or grazing near by in charge of the dogs, and Mr. Clark, Donald, and the men turned in to snatch a few hours' sleep in anticipation of the long watch before them.

It was deep twilight when they awoke.

Sandy shook Donald by the shoulder.

"We must be up and away, laddie," he said, as the boy turned drowsily. "It's a man's work—real work you're doing here; you are no playing sheep-raiser. Rouse your father, snatch a bit of bread, and come and help me set the watch-fires. See, the Mexicans are already ahead of us."

With quick step he was off.

"Dinna forget your rifle," he called as he went.

Donald was on his feet.

"Father," he shouted, "Sandy says we must be starting out."

Mr. Clark sat up.

"I promised to obey Sandy, sure enough," he yawned, "and I like him all the better for routing me out, sleepy though I am. I will be with you in a moment. Where is Sandy?"

"Setting watch-fires along the outer edge of the pasture. He says to bring your rifle."

A little later and they had overtaken the Scotchman, who was striding along through the darkness, swinging his lantern.

"It is here I'll station you, Mr. Clark," said Sandy simply. "Patrol this border as far as the bonfire; then turn backward and go until you meet Bernardo. Donald will pace between the next two fires, and the Mexicans and myself will complete the circle round the flock. Be careful lest bob-cats steal down on you unawares; they come softly as mice, make no fuss, and kill so quickly that they seldom disturb the herd. It is likely we will no be troubled with them because of the fenced-in pasture. Now cougars will leap the fence without the dogs knowing them to be at hand, too, and will take their kill off over their shoulders and disappear. We have seen no cougars, though, this year, and here's hoping that we won't. While you are patrolling I'd advise you to fire now and again, even though no beasts are in sight; it scares them off. Now I've told you all I can. Good-night."

Away into the falling darkness sped Sandy.

Donald began his patrol. As he trudged back and forth on his beat he could catch an occasional glimpse of the Scotchman, who stopped to toss a few sticks on the fire or halted an instant to exchange a word with one of the Mexicans. The boy could also see his father's dim figure walking to and fro. It was dull work, this monotonous tramp. Donald looked up at the canopy of stars and thought he had never seen so many. He yawned, and yawned a second time. Still he kept up his even jog along the outskirts of the fold.

Suddenly he was conscious of a low whine not far away. It was repeated. Then came a loud barking as if a pack of wolves were on the other side of the pasture. He heard Sandy's voice echoing on the clear air. Two shots followed. Perhaps the coyotes were over there; or could it be a cougar or a bear? How he longed to be in the midst of the sport! Why should he stay on this quiet, unmolested border of the pasture? Nothing was happening here! An impulse to join his father or Sandy swept over him; then a thought rose in his mind and held him back—if he left his patrol he would be a deserter, a deserter as blameworthy as any sentry who fled from his post. Straightening up proudly, the boy resumed his even pace.

It was just as he turned that he caught sight of a crouching form slipping along the ground toward the edge of the flock. With a sharp flash Donald's rifle rang out. He shot into the air, not daring to aim toward the pasture lest unwittingly he injure some of the sheep in the darkness. His shot was answered by a yelp and a quick rush. Colin bounded to his side, sniffed, and darted into the herd.

A commotion followed.

There was a struggle, a low growl of rage.

Then the collie trotted back to Donald's side dragging in his teeth a limp mass which he dropped at the lad's feet.

The boy struck a match and turned the creature over with his foot.

It was a coyote!

Then how glad he was that he had not left his post!

At dawn Sandy came to relieve him. The herder glanced first at the dead coyote, then at some faint tracks in the moist earth.

"You have interrupted a midnight orgy, Don," he declared at last, rubbing his hands together as he always did when anything pleased him very much. "Here are the marks of at least four coyotes that were stealing down on the flock when you fired. You got this one, and evidently drove off the others. I wish we had had as good luck on our side of the fold. In spite of his watchfulness Bernardo lost two lambs. He is one of our best herders, too, and he is sore about it. You have done a good night's work, lad. I am proud of my pupil!"

And as Donald heard Sandy's words his lips parted in a smile and he felt he would have patrolled a line twice as long to have earned the young Scotchman's praise.



CHAPTER X

A PREDICTION THAT CAME TRUE

When the lambs were three weeks old Sandy decided to break camp, leave the fenced lambing-pasture, and push on to higher ground.

"The sun is getting hot and we must have cooler quarters," he explained. "By nature sheep seek elevated ground, you know, and their health is better there. Now that their fleeces are getting so much thicker the poor beasts are too warm in the low places. What is more, they need the exercise of climbing. Grass, too, is becoming scant and we must not eat it down too close."

Mr. Clark agreed.

Therefore a clear July morning saw the vast herd winding its way up the steep incline of the mountainside. Sandy went on ahead, guiding the flock to the best pasturage and the freshest water-holes. The lambs trotted at their mother's sides or frisked after them with the playfulness of kittens. When a plentiful water supply and rich grass was found Sandy often delayed the upward march a week or more, that the flock might make the most of the lush herbage. When feed was meager there were days of scrambling up rocky stretches, and nights of patrolling the fold. Then more days of climbing would follow. Sometimes a scarcity of water forced them to press on against their will.

They had now reached a high elevation, but the warmth of the July weather rendered the coolness welcome. The sheep gladly sought out the forest shade or, when they were above the timber-line, rested in the shadow of the high rocks. This rough land seemed to be the favorite place for their sports, and Donald and his father were never tired watching them.

A single sheep would mount a boulder, from which vantage ground he would stand looking down at the herd. In a moment several of the flock would rush forward, butt him from the rock, and one of them would take his place, only to be driven down and succeeded by the next victor. The sheep often played this for a long time.

"It is a good game, too," declared Sandy, "for to rush up the side of a high rock like that and not slip back makes them sure-footed."

Another game the flock sometimes played was Follow the Leader, one old ewe marching ahead, followed by a line of sheep that went wherever she led them.

"They play it almost as well as we did at school," said Donald, much amused.

"That is a useful game too," went on Sandy. "By playing it the young lambs learn to follow the others, and do what they do. That is one way they get training to keep in the herd and obey the mind of the leader. It is really more of a lesson than a game. I suspect, though, they are like us—so long as they think it is a game they like to play it. Perhaps, now, if we were to hint to them it was a lesson they might never play it again."

Donald chuckled.

There were many times when it seemed to him that Sandy must be a boy of fourteen instead of a man of forty; yet the next moment the Scotchman would address him with the gravity of a grandfather, and immediately Donald felt very young indeed. A strange mixture of youth and wisdom was Sandy McCulloch!

As the lambs were now old enough to travel with the flock there was no further need for the Mexicans to linger on the range, and they therefore went back over the trail to busy themselves at the home ranch until shearing time. The camp-tender, too, did not now take time to make the difficult journey up into the mountains, but left supplies at a given spot in the lower pastures, or met some of the party half-way and delivered over the provisions. If the rations were left it fell to the lot of one of the campers on the upper range to ride down on the pony and bring back "the grub," as Sandy called it. Once when Mr. Clark went down it was only to find that the supplies had been scented out by a bear and dragged away; in consequence the party on the mountain were forced to get on without bread or fresh provisions until the tender made his next round.

At times it was Donald's turn to make this trip; on other days Sandy or Bernardo went. As there was always the chance of meeting a grizzly or a rattler the journey was not without its perils.

Thus the summer passed.

Then came the fall days, when threatened cold made it necessary to turn the heads of the herd toward the lower hills of the winter range. Downward they wended their way. Flurries of snow caught them unawares and at these blizzards Sandy's face always became grave, for it was in one of these sudden squalls that his father, Old Angus, had perished. Although the days were chilly and the nights still colder, Mr. Clark and Donald kept resolutely with the flock; but when they reached the lowlands and the Scotch herder directed his band of sheep toward the bronzed fields of sage-brush and dried hay lying along the river valley Donald and his father bade good-bye to Bernardo and Sandy and returned to the shelter of the home ranch.

Thornton welcomed them.

There was something new in his manner—a strange, unaccustomed dignity which lent to the man a charm he had never before possessed.

"Thornton did not shuffle toward us and look down as he usually does," observed Donald to his father when they were alone. "He is different, somehow. What is it?"

"I am not sure, son, but I cannot help feeling that Thornton has come to his best self. The best is in all of us. It is not, however, always uppermost. Perhaps it is going to triumph in Thornton."

There unquestionably was a change in the big rough man.

That evening he got out the books and went over all the accounts with Mr. Clark, telling him just what supplies he had ordered; what they had cost; and how much he had paid out in wages. In dealing with financial matters Mr. Clark was on his native heath. He studied the columns of figures critically. The accounts were correct to a cent, and he could readily see that every reasonable economy had been practiced in the management of the ranch.

"You have done well, Thornton," he said after he had finished looking over the bills and papers. "I am greatly obliged to you for your faithful work."

Donald saw a flush of pleasure rise to the man's cheek.

"My work has not always been faithful, Mr. Clark," Thornton declared with sudden determination. "I want to tell you, sir, that I was not setting out to be faithful to you at all. I wanted to get Johnson's place, and then I meant to run Crescent Ranch to please myself. I am going to confess the whole thing; I want to confess it because your confidence in me has made me ashamed of myself. You must have known somehow that I was not running things as they ought to be run, else you would never have come out here. Sandy knew it—so did all the old herders. Yet, save about the permits, you never have spoken a word of reproof, but have gone on trusting me. When you looked me so kindly in the eye and went away leaving me in care of the whole home ranch I somehow felt that you expected me to do the square thing."

His voice faltered.

Donald, who had been an uncomfortable listener, now rose and tried to steal out of the room unnoticed, but Thornton called him back.

"Do not go, lad. You may be owning Crescent Ranch some day, and I want you to hear what I have to say. There is not much more to tell. After you and your father had gone to the range with Sandy I sat down and thought it all over. Here I was, alone! There was no getting away from myself. I reviewed all the plans I had made—how I was going to stock some of my friends at Glen City with provisions and charge it up to Clark & Sons; how I was going to pad the accounts and keep the money—I went over the whole thing, and I felt mean as a cur. It came to me that it was a pretty poor game. Then another plan came into my mind. You were giving me a chance to be decent—why didn't I take it? I did. I have been absolutely honest about running the ranch while you have been gone, Mr. Clark. I can look you and Donald in the eye just as Sandy, Jose, Bernardo, and the other men do who have been working for your interest all these years."

Mr. Clark put out his hand.

"I am glad you told me this, Thornton," he said quietly, "and I believe you. See, here is a sheet of paper; it is scrawled over with letters and figures of every sort. Turn it over."

Wonderingly the man obeyed. Nothing was written on the other side. It was a blank page.

"You see there is nothing on that side," went on Donald's father. "We can there write what we will. Turn your own page the same way. Let us forget the past. Now for the future! Will you take the position as manager of Crescent Ranch?"

Thornton was aghast.

"I, sir! I? After all that has happened?" he contrived to stammer.

"Why not?"

"I couldn't do it, Mr. Clark. Not one of the men would believe in me. No, I am going to leave this place after the shearing is over, and go somewhere where no one knows me; there I can make a fresh start. And anyway, even if all this had not happened, I am not the man to be manager here. I have neither the confidence of the herders, nor the necessary knowledge about the flocks. But there is a man on Crescent Ranch who knows everything there is to know about sheep-raising—a man honest as the day, and who loves the place as if it was his own—Sandy McCulloch, sir. He is the only man for the position—there never has been any one else. Put him in as manager and you will never regret it."

Donald sprang up.

"Oh, father, do put Sandy in," he cried. "I never thought of Sandy as manager—he seems so young!"

"I have thought of him all along," Thornton continued. "That is why I was so ready with a word against him every chance I got. I have been afraid of him—afraid of his honesty and his goodness. It was not that he would tell tales about me; Sandy is too big-natured a man to do that. He would scorn to use a mean weapon. No, it was just because he was what he was that I feared him."

Mr. Clark was silent.

"You owe it to Old Angus, Sandy's father, to give the lad the place, sir," pleaded Thornton.

"And if I did what is to become of you, Thornton?" asked the owner slowly.

"Oh, I don't know. It does not matter. I will stay here until after the shearing, for it is a busy time and I might be of help. Then I can go and look up something else."

Donald watched his father as he bent forward and stirred the fire. The well-known little wrinkle had come in his forehead and the boy knew that his mind was busy.

"Thornton," said Mr. Clark at last, "have you relatives here in the West?"

"No, sir."

"Are you alone in the world?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to go East with Donald and me when we return to Boston after the shearing?"

Thornton regarded him blankly.

"I need another man in my office," explained the wool-broker. "You have proved yourself a good accountant. Furthermore it would be greatly to our advantage to have a reliable helper who is familiar with ranch affairs and knows Sandy, the new manager. Then if I wanted some one, as I often have in the past, to make the trip out here and attend to business for me, you could do it."

Thornton got up and walked to the window. They could not see his face. He stood with his back toward them, looking out into the darkness.

Then suddenly he wheeled and came to Mr. Clark's side.

"You took me by surprise, sir," he said unsteadily. "I cannot thank you. I know well it is another chance you are giving me. I will take it and go East, and there I will prove to you that in the future you can trust me."

"You have proved that already, Thornton," replied Donald's father, as he smiled up into the face of the ranchman and gripped his coarse brown hand.

After Thornton had left the room Donald and his father were silent.

At last the boy said:

"You were right about Thornton, father. He was honest with you, just as you predicted he would be."

"I believe if you expect the best of a man you will usually get it," replied Mr. Clark. "There is something big and honest in each of us which springs to meet the big and honest in somebody else. Appeal to that best side of people and it will respond. I have seldom known the rule to fail. Now just one thing more. Do not forget that this man has given us his confidence. It is a thing we must hold sacred. Never repeat what you have heard. And above all remember that Thornton deserves both admiration and respect, for it is only great natures that admit they have done wrong."

Donald nodded.

"I like Thornton better than I did before father," he said softly.

"So do I, son!"



CHAPTER XI

THE SHEARING

There was great rejoicing among the herders when, in the latter part of April, they drove their flocks to Glen City for the shearing, and heard that Sandy McCulloch had been made manager of Crescent Ranch.

Mr. Clark and Donald gave out the facts with greatest care—how Thornton was to become Clark & Son's confidential man at the Boston office; and how Sandy was to take the vast sheep-raising portion of the business under his direction.

"It is a proud day for you, Sandy!" cried Jose.

"I'm no pretending I ain't pleased," replied Sandy, beaming on the Mexican, "but dinna think I'm proud. If I do my work well pride may come; still, it's no time for it now."

"Of course you'll do it well—how could you help it! It is in your blood," Jose declared. "You have your father's own knack about the flocks. It is the real love for herding—a kind of part of you, it seems."

"I get it from generations of shepherds who have tended the black-faced sheep among the broom and the heather on the hills of Scotland, I doubt not," answered Sandy.

"Well, it stands you in good stead, however you come by it," Jose called over his shoulder as he moved off toward the pen where his sheep were.

"I hope it may stand me in good stead in the future, Don," Sandy said gravely to the boy beside him.

"I am sure it will. Isn't it splendid, Sandy, to see the herders all so pleased and ready to follow out your orders? I think nothing could have made me happier than to have you put in to manage the ranch."

"I'm verra, verra glad myself, laddie. It is a thing I never dared hope for, and I would not have wanted to take the job from Thornton. But since he is going East and is to be well provided for it makes everything right."

"And yet you telegraphed my father to come here, Sandy."

It was the first time the telegram had ever been mentioned between them.

Sandy hesitated.

"I felt your father should come out here and cast his eye over the place and, loving the ranch so well, I took it on myself to send for him. But I told no tales. It was his task to find the flaws if there were any. I am no certain what he found and I dinna want to hear. I simply know the snarls have straightened themselves out, and that Crescent Ranch is now going on better than it has in years. The men have all been glad for a glimpse of your father. It is no so much fun working for somebody you have never seen. It has been a great thing to have him come. And as for the herds—was there ever a finer sight?"

He swept his hand around dramatically.

On every side, in numbered pens, sheep were waiting to be sheared.

It was the first time Donald had seen the stock all together and it was indeed, as Sandy had declared, a fine sight.

The herders were not a little proud of the thickness of the fleeces of their respective flocks and much good-natured banter passed between them.

"Is it on corn-husks you have been feeding your ewes that they look so sickly?" called one Mexican to another.

The swarthy herdsman grinned.

"Mind your own band, Manuel Torquello! You haven't a fleece in your fold that will tip the scales at ten pounds."

Both men laughed and passed on.

"How much ought fleeces to weigh, Sandy?" asked Donald.

"From six to ten pounds—as the clip runs. Some are heavier, some lighter. It depends on the quality of the wool, and the amount of oil in it."

"I don't see why the shearing is not done at the ranch instead of driving all the sheep down here to Glen City," panted Donald as he tried to keep up with Sandy's strides.

"Why, you see, lad, it is much more convenient to have the wool clipped near the railroad. In that way we do away with carting it. The fleeces can be sheared, packed, weighed, and put right on the cars. Beside that, we get the power to run our plant from Glen City. Our shearing is done by electricity and not by hand, you know."

"It is mean of me to make you answer questions, Sandy, when you are in such a hurry," Donald ventured hesitatingly, "but I wish you had time to explain to me about the shearing."

Sandy was in a hurry—there was no denying that!

He and Donald had driven down from Crescent that morning, and were to meet Thornton and Mr. Clark as soon as possible at the shed where the shearing was to be done. Nevertheless, in spite of his haste, Sandy tried as he went along to answer Donald's question.

"There was a time long ago when all shearing was done by hand. In the spring bands of traveling shearers came from ranch to ranch and sheared the flocks for so much a day. Sometimes these men were Mexicans, sometimes Indians. As they made a business of shearing and nothing else they became verra skilful with the shears and could turn off many fleeces a day. It is an art to shear a sheep. Many a try must you have before you can do it. The smaller ranches still shear by hand, for it does not pay to run a power plant unless you have large flocks."

"I suppose a power plant does the work quicker," suggested Donald.

"No, I think good shearers can clip the fleeces almost as fast. The chief advantage in machinery is that it takes the wool off closer, and you do not need such skilled men to do the work. You just have to remember not to shear flocks this way in summer, for the wool would be cut so close that your sheep would be wild with flies and sunburn before their coats grew long enough to protect them."

They had now reached the plant, where they were to meet Donald's father and Thornton; they mounted the steps of the low building and went in. Immediately they were greeted by the whirr of wheels, the chatter of many herders, and the blatting of sheep.

Mr. Clark came forward.

"Well, Don," he said, "this is quite a sight, isn't it?"

"I should say it was! I had no idea shearing was done this way. It is just the way they clip horses or cut my hair."

His father smiled.

"Yes, it is done on the same principle. Let us watch this man here. He is just starting. I thought he would tie the feet of the sheep first, but he does not seem to be doing it; instead he is turning it up on its rump, and holding it with his left arm so its hoofs cannot touch the floor. They say sheep never kick or struggle if their feet are raised from the ground. Now he is starting with the shears. See! He is opening the wool by a cut down the right shoulder. How neatly the fleece comes off—almost in one piece, as if it was a jacket!"

"I guess that was a smooth-skinned sheep," laughed Donald, "or the shearer never could have done it so quickly."

The man who was shearing overheard him.

"It was a smooth-skinned one," he called. "Still, even the wrinkly Merinos loose their coats pretty fast. Watch and see. I have one right here."

Donald watched.

It was fascinating.

"I'd like to try it," he said glancing up at his father.

"I guess you'd have trouble!"

"I wouldn't mind the trouble if I wasn't afraid of cutting the sheep," replied the boy.

"Suppose you leave it until you come West the next time," called Sandy, who chanced to be passing and heard his words. "You mustn't do everything this trip, or you'll have nothing to look forward to when you come again."

"Perhaps it's as well for the sheep!" grunted the Mexican who was shearing.



"I shouldn't wonder!" answered Donald good-naturedly.

But what a charm there was in that crisp snip of the shears!

At last, however, Donald and his father moved on to where crews of men were busy at smooth board tables.

"What are they doing here?" Donald asked.

"They are tying fleeces," explained Mr. Clark.

"But don't they wash that dirty wool before they tie it up?" questioned the boy, astounded.

Sandy, who had joined them for the moment, laughed at Donald's disgust.

"You'd have us washing and ironing it, perhaps," he chuckled. "No, no! We used to wash all fleeces before they were clipped, 'tis true. But your father says that now buyers care little for them washed. Folks will pay about as much for good wool unwashed as washed. It is a lucky thing for us, because it saves us much trouble; more than that, it is better for the sheep not to be put through the water. The thick fleece stays damp for many days, and unless the creature is range-bred and therefore used to all weather it suffers a shock, and is liable to be sick. You can't shear a flock until about two weeks after washing, for not only must the fleece dry, but new yolk must form in the wool. If the wool is too dry the shears will not slip through it."

"But by the end of two weeks I should think the sheep would have his fleece all dirty again," objected Donald.

"That is just the point—he does."

"Why couldn't you wash the fleece after it is taken off?"

"We could. It is done sometimes. Your father can tell you that he sends off wool and has it scoured before selling it if a buyer wishes it done."

Mr. Clark nodded.

"But here," continued Sandy, "we wash no fleeces. We do take care, though, not to tie very dirty pieces in with the fleece. My father always insisted on the tying being honest. Only wool went into the bundle. You and your father must watch and see how quickly they do the tying."

As Sandy flitted away again Mr. Clark and Donald made their way to the long table where the boys who went about among the shearers and collected the fleeces were tossing them down.

Each fleece was spread out on the table, the belly and loose ends folded deftly inside; then the whole was fastened into a square bundle.

"It would seem as if any twine would do to tie a package like that, wouldn't it, Don?" said Mr. Clark.

"Of course."

"It is not so," went on his father. "There is nothing about which a wool-grower has to be more careful than about the twine with which he ties his fleeces. You must always avoid using a fiber twine—by that I mean hemp, or any variety having fibers which will break off in the wool. These fibers or particles get stuck in the fleeces, and later when the wool reaches the mill, the mill people do not like it. Either the bits of hemp have to be picked out—an endless job—or the wool is sent back. You can see that they could not dye wool with all these little particles in it. The hemp would take a different color from the rest of the wool, and would result in specked goods."

"What kind of twine do we use, father?" asked Donald, much interested.

"We use a paper twine. Other growers often tie their fleeces with glazed twine."

"I never should have thought twine could make so much trouble," mused the lad.

"You would think of it, though, if you had once been set to picking fiber out of wool as I was when I was a boy!" interrupted Sandy, as he darted past.

Donald and his father followed at the heels of the young Scotchman as he went through into another shed where the wool was being packed. Here lay great piles of tied fleeces and heaps of loose wool. About the shed stood wooden frames from the center of which swung burlap sacks used for packing the clip.

"Why do the men first stuff the two lower corners of the bags with wool and tie them?" the boy asked after he had looked on a few moments.

"We call those corners ears," replied his father. "Sacks of wool are not only awkward to handle but very heavy, and it is a help to have the corners, firmly tied, to take hold of."

Donald nodded. He was too busy looking about him to reply.

The men packing the wool took one of the burlap bags, fitted its mouth over a wooden hoop just the right size, and fastened the bag inside the frame in such a way that it hung its full length and just cleared the floor.

Then the packer began tossing wool into the sack.

When it was about half-full he jumped into it and tramped the fleeces down solidly.

Afterward he climbed out and another man wheeled a truck under the frame; then the packer freed the sack, and when it dropped it was promptly sewed up and wheeled to the scales, where it was weighed. Its weight was entered in a book by a man who kept the tally and the same figures were also roughly painted on the bag.

"And there's the end of it!" exclaimed Sandy, who came up and stood beside Donald as Mr. Clark walked away. "Now you know the wool business, Don!"

Donald shook his head.

"It will take me longer than this to know the wool business," he answered. "I mean when we get home, though, to get father to tell me the rest of it—about the selling and manufacturing."

"That part would be new to me too," said Sandy. "Here we have no selling; we do not even auction off our own wool, as you see, for our clip goes direct to our owners. But when a ranch sells its wool to other buyers the manager has lively days, I can tell you. Both Anchor and Star Ranch sell to brokers. They send out word that they have wool for sale and the Eastern buyers swarm here like flies. They bid on the wool—bid right against each other, even though sometimes they are the best of friends. The men get an idea of the price they want to pay by looking over the fleeces and seeing how they will grade up. Above everything else a wool buyer must have a trained eye, quick to detect the quality of the shipment offered for sale. That is what decides him on how high he will bid. After the buyers have got up to what they consider a reasonable price they stop bidding. The wool-grower must then accept the highest bid."

"But he may not be satisfied with the price," put in Donald.

"It makes no difference. They are supposed to make a fair bid on the clip."

"What if he shouldn't take it?"

"Why, then all the brokers who have bid on the wool leave town pledging each other not to bid on that particular shipment of wool for two weeks," replied Sandy.

"Why?" inquired Donald, opening his eyes.

"It is to protect the brokers. You can see the justice in it when you think a moment. These Easterners are busy men and they come a long way. They can't take a trip to some far-off ranch only to find the wool-grower has decided not to sell his fleeces; or that he will not sell them below a certain price. If a man really does not want to sell he must not get the buyers there; if he does he must be content with what they offer. Your father would have to buy his wool this way if he did not own Crescent Ranch; and even so he may send men to buy wool at outside ranches too, for all I know."

"I am going to ask him," Donald said.

"Do not ask him now. He might not want to talk his business over here. Wait until you get back East."

"I hate to think of going back home, Sandy," the boy declared, regret in his tones.

"All good things must come to an end, lad. You will go back, finish your schooling, go to college as your father wishes, and then, a gentleman grown, you will be choosing some work."

Sandy studied Donald keenly.

"Yes, I suppose that is just what I shall do. I am thinking some of studying law, Sandy."

The Scotchman's face fell, but Donald did not notice it.

"I've always thought I should like to stand up in court and make a great plea—a speech that would sweep people off their feet," went on Donald. "Or," he added reflectively, "I may be a judge."

Sandy scratched his head.

"There's a good bit step between studying law and being a judge," said he.

"Perhaps after all I may decide not to be a judge," ruminated Donald. "I have always wanted to manage a baseball team and I may think I would rather do that."

"Go on with you!" Sandy cried. "Next you'll be having yourself a lighthouse-keeper." Then he added wistfully: "But no matter what you are, laddie, dinna forget Crescent Ranch."



CHAPTER XII

HOME TO THE EAST

Within two weeks Thornton, Mr. Clark, and Donald were back in Massachusetts, and the thread of Eastern life was once more taken up.

Donald did not return to school, since it was now so near June that to enter the class seemed useless; instead it was decided that he should have a tutor through the summer to help him make up the work he had lost, and thereby enable him to go on with his class in the fall. This tutor, however, had to be found, and until he was the boy was free from duties of every sort. It gave him a strange sense of loneliness to be with nothing to do. All his friends were in school—there was no one to play with.

"I think I'll go in to the office with you, father," he suggested one morning. "It is stupid staying round in Cambridge when all the fellows are slaving for their exams. I have been so busy while out on the ranch that now I do not know what to do with myself."

Mr. Clark agreed to the proposal cordially.

In consequence it came about that Donald joined Thornton at the large Boston warehouse. The store was not new to the boy, for he had often been there with his father; but to Thornton this part of the wool business was as novel as the first glimpses of ranching had been to Donald. The high building of yellow brick with floor after floor of hurrying men, the offices noisy with the hum of typewriters, the ring of telephones, the comings and goings of messenger-boys and mail-carriers—all this little universe of rush and confusion was an untried world to Thornton. Its strangeness dazed him.

Mr. Clark promptly placed him in the accounting department, but to his surprise Thornton foundered there helplessly. It was one thing to keep books amid the quiet and leisure of Crescent Ranch, and quite another to struggle with columns of figures in the riot of modern business surroundings. At the end of three days the Westerner looked gray and tired, and had accomplished nothing.

"I don't know what I am going to do with him, Don," announced Mr. Clark, much troubled. "I have brought him here from Idaho, and of course I am bound to look out for him; yet there does not seem to be an earthly thing he can do. My plan was to set him to keeping books in Cook's place, and send Cook out to Crescent Ranch to help Sandy. Sandy, you know, cannot handle accounts. Poor lad—he had little opportunity for schooling in his youth, and the financial side of his work is his one weak spot. He realizes this himself, and it was only on the condition that I send him an assistant that he would undertake the management of the ranch at all. I expected, as I say, that Cook would go; evidently, however, Thornton is not going to be able to fill his place. What shall I do with Thornton, Don? We must find a niche for him somehow."

Donald reflected a moment.

"Had you thought, father, of trying him up-stairs?" he asked.

"No, I hadn't. We need a foreman up there, but I had not considered Thornton for the position. That is a happy inspiration, son. We will give him a try. He may make good yet."

Accordingly Thornton was sent to the upper floors of the warehouse, where the wool was stored. Here were great piles of loose wool reaching from floor to ceiling. Some piles contained only the finest wool; other piles that which was next-best in quality; still other piles were made up of the coarser varieties. There were piles of scoured wool, piles of South American and Australian wool—wool, wool, wool everywhere!

With keen interest Thornton looked about him. He wandered from one vast pyramid of fleeces to another, catching up handfuls of the different varieties and examining them. Then he walked to where the men were busy opening the first spring shipments of wool from Crescent Ranch. The wool was emptied from the sacks onto the floor in great heaps, and crews of men—skilled in judging the fiber—set to work to sort it, separating the different qualities into piles. Donald, who was looking on, saw a smile pass over Thornton's face—the first smile that had brightened it in days. Then, almost instinctively, the ranchman rolled up his sleeves and began to grade wool with the other men. He worked rapidly, for he was thoroughly familiar with what he was doing.

The next day when Donald went up-stairs he found Thornton directing a lot of green hands who were packing the sorted, or graded wool, in bags. Later in the week it chanced that the man who weighed the wool fell ill and the Westerner took his place at the scales, seeing that the sacks of wool were correctly weighed and recorded, that they were sewed up strongly, and marked for shipping.

Gradually the men, recognizing Thornton's ability, began to defer to his judgment. The month was not out before Clark & Sons began to wonder what they had done before Thornton came. So familiar did he make himself with the stock that even Mr. Clark sent for and consulted him about orders and shipments.

"He is proving himself a thoroughly useful man, Don," declared Mr. Clark rubbing his hands with satisfaction. "His knowledge of the ranch and of the wool itself is invaluable. It is just a case of putting the peg into the proper hole. Thornton was like a fish out of water here in the office. Now he is in his element. I shall make him foreman of the shipping department—a position just suited to him, and which he will fill well."

"I am so glad he has made good, father," said Donald. "Now, what are you going to do about an assistant for Sandy? That is the next question to settle, I suppose. Have you found any one?"

"Not yet. I have had a great deal to do, Don. I shall, however, look up some one as soon as possible. In the meantime, before you start in with your tutor, and Thornton gets so rushed that he cannot be spared, I want to take you both to Mortonstown to visit the Monitor Mills. Thornton has never seen the manufacture of woolen goods and will be the more intelligent for doing so; as for you, I am anxious to have you complete the story of wool-growing which you began at Crescent Ranch. To stop short of visiting a mill now would be like reading the opening chapters of a book and never finishing the volume."

"I do want to know the rest of the story very much, father," Donald replied. "I told Sandy when I was out West that I hoped you would some time take me to a mill. Since we got home, though, you have been so busy that I did not like to ask you."

"That was thoughtful of you, son. Ordinarily I should have preferred to wait; it chances, however, that something has come up which obliges me to see the Monitor people right away. So I shall go out there to-morrow, taking Thornton with me, and if you like you may go also."

"Of course I'd like!" exclaimed Donald eagerly.

The next day proved to be so gloriously clear that instead of making the trip to Mortonstown by train Mr. Clark decided to run out in his touring-car. It was not a long ride—something over twenty-five miles—but to Thornton, unaccustomed to the luxury of a modern automobile, the journey was one of unalloyed delight.

"It is like riding in a sitting-room on wheels, isn't it?" he murmured with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Some day you will be having a car of your own, Thornton," Mr. Clark said, smiling.

"And riding to Idaho in it," put in Donald.

"Well, it is about the smoothest way I ever traveled!" declared the ranchman. "When we came East I thought that sleeping-car close to a moving palace; but this thing has the train beaten to a frazzle. You see I am used to jolting over rough roads in springless wagons, and it is something new to me to go along as if I was sliding down-hill on a velvet sofa-cushion."

Donald and his father heartily enjoyed the big fellow's pleasure.

As for Thornton, when the car came to a stop before the puffing Mortonstown mills it was with regret that he dragged himself from the seat. Still, he had the ride home in anticipation—that was a comforting thought.

Once within the mills, however, even the memory of the homeward journey faded from his mind. The vast buildings throbbing with the beat of engines, the click and whirr of bobbins, and the clash of machinery, blotted out everything else.

When they entered Mr. Munger, the manager, who was expecting them, came forward cordially.

"We were glad to hear by telephone that you were coming out to-day, Mr. Clark," he said. "Mr. Bailey, the president, is waiting to see you in his private office."

"Very well," answered Mr. Clark. "Now while I am talking with him I should greatly appreciate it if my son Donald, and my foreman, Mr. Thornton, might go over the works. They have never visited a woolen mill."

"We shall be delighted to show them about," answered Mr. Munger. "I will send some one with them."

Turning, the manager beckoned to a young man who was busy at a desk.

"This gentleman," continued he, "has been with us many years and will be able to answer all your questions. Take these visitors through the factory, Mac, show them everything, and bring them back here. Now if you are ready, Mr. Clark, we will join Mr. Bailey."

Donald and Thornton moved away, following their guide into a building just across the yard. Here wool was being sorted by staplers who were expert in judging its quality. They worked at frames covered with wire netting which allowed the dirt to sift through, and as they handled the material and tossed it into the proper piles they picked out straws, burrs, and other waste caught in it.

"This sorting must be carefully done," explained the bookkeeper who was showing them about, "or the wool will not take the dye well. Much depends on having the fleeces clear of waste. We also are very particular about the sorting. The finest wool, as you know, comes from the sides of the sheep; that clipped from the head and legs is coarse and stiff. All this we separate before we send the fleeces on to be scoured. In this next room you will see how the material is washed."

They passed on and next saw how steam was blown through the wool, not only removing the dirt but softening the fibers. The fleeces were also washed in many great bowls of soap and water.

"Here again we must exercise great care that the water is clean and the soap pure, or the wool will not dye perfectly. We use a kind of potash soap which we are sure is of the best make. Another thing which renders the scouring of wool difficult is that we must not curl or snarl it while we are washing it."

"I don't see how you can help it," Donald said.

"We can if we take proper care," returned the bookkeeper.

"And what is this other machine for?" inquired Thornton, pointing to one at the end of the room.



"That machine is picking the wool apart so that the air can get through it and help it to dry. After it is picked up light and fluffy we pass it through these heavy rollers, which are like wringers and which squeeze out the remaining moisture. Yet during all these processes we must always be careful not to snarl the wool. See, here is where it comes out white and clean, ready to go to the dyeing room."

Donald regarded the snowy fleeces with wonder.

"You would never dream it could be the same wool!" he said. "Isn't it beautiful? It is not much the way it looks when it leaves the ranch, is it, Thornton?"

"I should say not," agreed the Westerner emphatically. "The sheep ought to see how handsome their coats are."

"So they should!" answered the young bookkeeper. "You have been on a ranch then?"

"We have just come from one," Donald answered.

"Have you, indeed! It is a free life—not much like being shut up inside brick walls."

"You have been West yourself, perhaps," ventured Thornton.

"Yes, years ago—when I was a boy; but not recently."

"Ah, you should see the sheep country now!" Thornton went on. "It is much improved, I reckon, since you were there."

"I imagine so," the young guide answered with a wistful smile. "It is so long since I have had a breath of real air that I have almost forgotten how it would seem."

"If you are wanting fresh air go out on the ranges and fill your lungs. You will find plenty there," declared the ranchman.

"That is just what they are trying to make me do," the young man replied, "I have not been very well this year and Mr. Munger thinks the confinement in the mill is telling on me. He wants me to go West for a vacation."

"And should you like to?" questioned Donald.

The man did not answer; instead he said:

"Suppose we go on. We must not waste too much time here. In this next room you will see how the dyeing is done. We use centrifugal machines, and beside those we have these others to keep the wool spread and turned. With all our care not to snarl or curl it, it will get matted and must therefore be picked apart again. So we pass it through these revolving drums which, you see, have sets of spikes on them; as the spikes on the different drums turn they catch in the wool and pick it all apart so it is again light and fluffy as it was before."

"Doesn't so much washing and dyeing take out all the yolk, and make the wool very dry?" inquired Thornton.

The young man conducting them seemed pleased at the question.

"Yes, it does! That is just the trouble. Therefore we are forced to set about getting some oil back into it; otherwise it would be so harsh and stiff that we could do nothing with it. So we put the thin layers of wool into these machines and carry them along to a spraying apparatus which sprays them evenly with oil. We use olive oil, but some other manufacturers prefer lard oil or oleine."

"How funny to have to put oil back into the wool after you have just washed it out!" Donald remarked.

"It is funny, isn't it?" nodded the bookkeeper. "Now on this side of the room they are blending the fleeces. Sometimes we blend different qualities of wool to get a desired effect, or sometimes we blend the wool with cotton or a different fiber. We take a thin layer of wool, then put another layer of a different kind over it. We then pick it all up together until we get a uniform mixture."

"It is a surprise to me that the wool has to go through so much red tape before it comes to spinning," Thornton said.

"It is a long process," responded their guide. "I remember when I first saw it, it seemed endless. Now I think little of it."

"We get used to everything in time, I suppose," Thornton answered; then he added whimsically: "Still, I don't think I should ever get used to riding in an automobile."

A hearty laugh came from behind them, and turning they saw Mr. Clark and Mr. Munger, the manager.

"I came to hunt you up," said Mr. Clark. "I have finished my interview with Mr. Bailey, and it seemed to me that by this time you must have finished spinning your next-winter's overcoat, Don."

"But I haven't, father," retorted Donald, smiling into his father's face. "I have not even begun to make the cloth at all."

"The yarn is not spun yet, sir," put in the young man who was with them.

"You are a slow guide, Mac, I fear," Mr. Munger laughed, laying a kindly hand on his bookkeeper's shoulder. "That is the chief fault with you Scotchmen—you are too thorough. Now let us hurry along. These gentlemen must get back to Boston to-day, you know."

Mr. Munger bustled ahead, conducting his visitors across a bridge and into the next mill.

Here was the carding room. Layers of wool entered the carding engine and were combed by a multitude of wire teeth until all the fibers lay parallel; the thin film of wool then passed into a cone-like opening and came out later in a thick strand of untwisted fibers.

"It is now ready to go to the drawing-frames," Mr. Munger explained. "You will notice how these drawing-frames pull the wool into shape for twisting and spinning, drawing it out to uniform size and finally winding it on bobbins. The machine is a complicated one to explain, but you can watch and see what it does."

"How wonderful it is that machinery can do all this work," Mr. Clark observed thoughtfully.

"Yes, it is," Mr. Munger agreed. "Years ago every part of the process was done by hand. Little by little, however, machines have been perfected until now we have contrivances that seem almost human. Shall we go now and see the yarn spun?"

When they reached the spinning room with its clatter of shifting bobbins Mr. Munger turned to Donald.

"I wonder if you know," he said, "that wool is worked into two different kinds of yarn—worsted yarn and woolen yarn. The fibers for worsted yarn are long and lie nearly parallel, and when woven result in a smooth surface. Broadcloth is made from worsted yarn. Woolen yarn, on the other hand, has its fibers lying in every direction and all these loose ends, when woven, give a rough surface. Of course after the cloth is milled it comes out smooth, but it is not as smooth and fine as a worsted cloth."

"I think I understand," Donald said. "Are we to see the cloth woven next?"

"Yes. You know we weave nothing but woolens; you must go to a worsted mill to see the other kinds of cloth made. The processes, though, are much alike."

Mr. Munger then hurried the party to the weaving mills, where amid an uproar of thousands of moving wheels, bobbins, and shuttles the threads of yarn traveled back and forth, back and forth, and came out of the looms as cloth. The cloth was then steamed, pressed, and rolled or folded.

"And now, young man," announced Mr. Munger to Donald jestingly, "you have seen the whole process, and there is no reason why your father should not give you some wool and let you make your own cloth for your next suit of clothes."

Although Donald was very tired he tried to smile.

"I think," he said, "that I would rather grow the wool on the ranch than make it into cloth here. It is far nicer out on the ranges."

"That is what I am trying to tell my young assistant," agreed Mr. Munger. "He is getting fagged, aren't you, Mac? You see he was brought up in the open country, and much as we think of him, we feel that he should go back to the Western mountains."

"Oh, I am all right, Mr. Munger," the bookkeeper hastened to say. "Just a bit tired, perhaps—that is all."

"If you are tired you should try the ranges of Idaho," Mr. Clark said. "My boy, here, and myself have recently returned from a year in the sheep country and feel like new men, don't we, Don? Undoubtedly the life there may not be as gay as in the city; still—to quote my manager, Sandy McCulloch, 'with bears, bob-cats, and coyotes, I dinna see how it could ever be dull.'"

So perfectly had Mr. Clark imitated Sandy's voice and accent that Thornton and Donald both laughed. Then they stopped suddenly.

The young bookkeeper had turned very pale and was eying them with a startled face.

"Sandy McCulloch!" he repeated. "Did you say Sandy McCulloch, sir?"

"Yes, Sandy McCulloch," answered Mr. Clark. "Do you know him?"

"He must be of your kin, Mac!" interrupted Mr. Munger. "This lad, strangely enough, is a McCulloch himself—Douglas McCulloch."

"Then you must be—you are Sandy's brother!" cried Donald.

The young man swayed a little and put out his hand to steady himself.

It seemed to Donald as if he would never speak.

When he did his voice was tremulous with emotion.

"Yes," he replied almost in a whisper. "I am Sandy's brother. Tell me of Sandy and of my father."



CHAPTER XIII

DONALD DECIDES

It was a wonderful story, Donald thought.

He was never tired of living over how, in visiting the Mortonstown mills, they had so unexpectedly found Douglas McCulloch; how, because of ill health, he was on the point of going West; and how, with Mr. Munger's permission, Mr. Clark had offered him the position as Sandy's assistant at Crescent Ranch. It was little short of a miracle that it had all come about!

It was interesting, too, to hear what had happened to Douglas after he left Idaho. When he first reached the East it was indeed a rude awakening from his dreams of city life; living was expensive, and work hard to find. Chance had borne him to the Monitor Mills where, because of his knowledge of wool, he had succeeded in getting a job at sorting fleeces. He had worked hard and patiently, and Mr. Bailey, who was quick to appreciate faithfulness, had promoted him until he had won the position of head bookkeeper. These years of vigorous work had, however, left their mark on one unaccustomed to long hours and little fresh air. In his heart the boy sighed for the hills—he wanted to be back again in the Western country which he so foolishly had insisted upon leaving. He became tired and thin, and the men for whom he worked were unselfish enough to see that unless he got back to the open ranges and to the sunlight he would soon be too ill to go.

And now the chance had come—it was almost unbelievable!

"I cannot realize that I am really to join Sandy," exclaimed the Scotchman over and over. "It is almost too much good luck. As a lad I was so eager to get away from the range that I would never have dreamed the time could come when I would be pining to return there. I have had my taste of the East! I would have gone back long ago had they not been so good to me here."

"But why didn't you write to Sandy, Douglas?" inquired Donald.

"Well, you see, although my father let me leave Crescent Ranch it disappointed him not a little to have me do so. Sandy thought, since my father felt that way, that I ought not to go, and we had words about it. I was very angry with Sandy at the time, but I see now that he was right. I wish I had stayed with my father. Then when I began to be homesick here and it all turned out just as Sandy had said I was ashamed to write. Even now I am almost afraid Sandy will not want to see me."

"Indeed he will!" cried Donald. "Why, often he talked about you when we were on the range together, and wished he might see you. My father has wired him already and he can hardly wait to get you back to Idaho."

"If only my father were there!" said Douglas sadly. "I shall never forgive myself that I came East and left him. I wish I had the chance to live over again and I would do differently."

"If we did not learn wisdom by what we do there would be no use in living, Douglas," Mr. Clark put in kindly. "At least you are going West to Sandy—going to be a great help to him in his work."

"I am so thankful that I can," replied the younger brother. "Think of going once more to Idaho and running that great ranch with him! It is more than I deserve."

"Make the most of your good fortune, Douglas," Mr. Clark said, "and do not disappoint Sandy and me."

"I will try, sir!" was the humble response.

Douglas McCulloch was as good as his word.

From the moment he and Sandy were united at Crescent Ranch he threw himself heart and soul into his new work. The charm of the hills stole over him with a fascination they had never held in those far-off days when he was a restless boy, eager for the excitement of city life. Douglas had had his fling, and he returned to the vast Western land older and wiser.

Together he and Sandy set about improving the ranch. They subscribed to magazines on sheep-raising; they visited other ranches and kept abreast of the times; they installed newer and more hygienic methods of wool-growing. Never had Crescent Ranch been so perfectly run. With two intelligent and unwearying young men at its head it bid fair to outshine the fame it had possessed in Old Angus's day. Gradually men interested in sheeping came from far and near to visit it. Clark & Sons began to be very proud to be the owners of such a treasure.

Thornton, in the meantime, had become Mr. Clark's right hand man at the Eastern office. From foreman he had worked up to being superintendent, and had then been promoted to traveling for the firm and selling wool. His devotion to Mr. Clark and everything that concerned him was unfailing.

During these years Donald had completed his school work; had taken his four years at college; and loyal to his early ambition, had entered the Law School. If it was a disappointment to his father for him to choose the law instead of a business career Mr. Clark did not say so. He kept closely in touch with the boy's studies and was proud of the future before him.

It was just as everything seemed to be moving so ideally that the first great calamity fell upon Clark & Sons. One morning a telegram came from Sandy saying that a big fire had swept the ranch, leveling to the ground house, barns, and sheep-pens. The blaze had come about through no one's carelessness. Lightning had struck the central barn, and before aid could be summoned the entire place had been destroyed.

Fortunately no one had been injured. The herders, together with their flocks, were on the range; and the crops of alfalfa had not been cut and were therefore saved.

"It might have been much worse, Don," said Mr. Clark in reviewing the situation. "We have lost no men, no sheep, no hay, no wool. Suppose the fire had come in shearing time and had destroyed all the fleeces; or suppose the blaze had come about through carelessness and Sandy and Douglas had had themselves to blame for it. As it is, it is nobody's fault—I am glad of that—and nothing has been lost but can be restored. The buildings are well covered by insurance and can be rebuilt during the summer. The chief trouble is that all this has happened at a time when I am very busy. I ought to go to Idaho, but I hardly see——"

"Can't I go, father?" interrupted Donald quickly. "I don't see why I couldn't adjust the insurance and help about having new buildings put up. Sandy and Douglas have good judgment, and before I started you could tell me just what you want done. Besides," he added shyly, "I am now through my first year at the Law School and have some little knowledge of legal affairs—that is, I know more than I used to."

Mr. Clark beamed.

"You could go in my place perfectly well, Don, if you are willing to give up your summer vacation to it. It would certainly be a great help. But how about those house-parties you had planned for?"

"I can decline those, father. I'd be glad to go!" was Donald's reply. "I always promised Sandy I would come West again some time, and I should really enjoy another glimpse of the hills."

So it was arranged.

Within two days Donald was speeding West, and almost before he realized it he was back at Crescent Ranch.

Then came letters for Mr. Clark.

The insurance was adjusted and with the aid of the McCullochs, Donald was drawing up plans for new barns—barns with cement floors, and far better ventilated and equipped than the old ones had been. Almost every day brought to the Eastern office pages and pages of sketches for sheep-folds and modern contrivances for lessening the labor of wool-growing. Every line of these letters bubbled with enthusiasm. There could be no possible question that Donald's heart was in every word he wrote.

Summer passed and the time for the beginning of the college term drew near.

Mr. Clark began to look for the boy's return.

Still there was no Donald!

Then came another letter:

Crescent Ranch, Glen City, Idaho.

DEAR FATHER:

You have been so generous in letting me follow out my own wishes as to my future, that I hardly know how to write you. I hope you will not be disappointed when you hear what I am going to say. The fact is, dad, after thinking the matter well over I have changed my mind about studying law. I have become tremendously interested in Crescent Ranch and in wool-growing, and I am wild to jump into the work.

If I thought you approved I should like to stay out here and see the buildings finished and then go to Kansas City with Sandy to select more sheep. If, however, you wish me to continue my law course I am perfectly willing to come East and take my degree.

Please wire.

Affectionately your son, DONALD CLARK.

Donald's father read the letter twice. Then he called his stenographer.

"Lawson," he said briskly, "I want to dictate a telegram and have you get it off right away. Here is the message:

"Mr. Donald Clark, Crescent Ranch, Glen City, Idaho.

"Cut out the law. Take up sheeping. Three cheers for you!

"(Signed) WILLARD PAYSON CLARK.

"Now repeat the message."

The stenographer did so.

Mr. Clark chuckled aloud.

"That is O. K., Lawson. Send it along as soon as possible. Oh, and Lawson—here is a gold-piece which goes with that telegram. Keep it in memory of this day, for it is the happiest one of my life. Mr. Donald is coming into Clark & Sons!"

THE END