THE FIGHTING SHEPHERDESS
through all its twistings and turnings, but manœuvering to work it to the outside where it could cut the lamb away from the rest and pull it down at its leisure.
Kate dared not shoot into the herd, and after a second's consideration as to whether or not to follow, she thrust the rifle back in its scabbard and turned her horse up the hill.
Even the sound of hoofs did not rouse the herder from his deep absorption. His hands were hanging at his sides, and his mouth was partially open. He was staring towards the east with unblinking eyes, and with as little evidence of life as though he had died standing.
"What are you looking at, Davis?"
He whirled about, startled.
"I was calc'latin' that Nebrasky must lay 'bout in that direction." He pointed to a pass in the mountains.
"A little homesick, aren't you?" Her voice was ominously quiet.
"Don't know whether I'm homesick or bilious; when I gits one I generally gits the other."
"You were wondering just then what your wife was doing that minute, weren't you?"
Her suavity deceived him and he grinned sheepishly.
"Somethin' like that, maybe."
"You are married, then?"
The herder began to see where he was drifting.
"Er—practically," he replied ambiguously.
"So you lied when you joined the Outfit and I asked you?"
The herder whined plaintively.
"I heerd you wouldn't hire no fambly man if you knew it."
"When I make a rule there's a reason for it. 'Family men' are unreliable—they'll quit in lambing time because
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