"I'll be there!" exclaimed Pete. "What makes them sheep keep a-moanin'
and a-bawlin' and a-shufflin' round? Don't they never git to sleep?"

"Si, but it is a new camp. To-morrow night they will be quiet. It is
always so."

"Well, they sure make enough noise. When do we git goin'?"

"Pedro, he will leave mañana. In two days we will move the camp."

"All right. I don't reckon Roth would be lookin' for me in any
sheep-camp anyhow." Young Pete was not afraid of the storekeeper, but
the fact that he had taken the gun troubled him, even though he had
left a note explaining that he took the gun in lieu of wages. He
shared Pedro's blankets, but slept little. The sheep milled and bawled
most of the night. Even before daybreak Pete was up and building a
fire. The sheep poured from the bedding-ground and pattered down to
the cañon stream. Later they spread out across the wide cañon-bottom
and grazed, watched by the dogs.

Full-fed and happy, Young Pete helped Pedro clean the camp-utensils.
The morning sun, pushing up past the cañon-rim, picked out the details
of the camp one by one--the smouldering fire of cedar wood, the packs,
saddles and ropes, the water-cask, the lazy burros waiting for the sun
to warm them to action, the blankets and sheepskin bedding, and farther
down the cañon a still figure standing on a slight rise of ground and
gazing into space--the figure of José de la Crux Montoya, the
sheep-herder whom Roth had said feared no man and was a dead shot.