in turn collapsed and was carried to the adjoining ant-hill by two of
his comrades evidently detailed on ambulance work. "Everybody
scraps--even the bugs," said Pete. "Them little red cusses sure ain't
scared o' nothin'." Stream after stream of red ants hastened to
reinforce their comrades on the barricade. The battle became general.
Pete grew excited. He was scraping up another barricade when he heard
one of the dogs bark. He glanced up. The sheep, frightened by a
buzzard that had swooped unusually close to them, bunched and shot
toward the cañon in a cloud of dust. Pete jumped to his feet and ran
swiftly toward the rock gateway to head them off. He knew that they
would make for the trail, and that those that did not get through the
pass would trample the weaker sheep to death. The dog on the cañon
side of the band raced across their course, snapping at the foremost in
a sturdy endeavor to turn them. But he could not. He ran, nipped a
sheep, and then jumped back to save himself from being cut to pieces by
the blundering feet. Young Pete saw that he could not reach the pass
ahead of them. Out of breath and half-sobbing as he realized the
futility of his effort, he suddenly recalled an incident like this when
Montoya, failing to head the band in a similar situation, had coolly
shot the leader and had broken the stampede.

Pete immediately sat down, and rested the barrel of his six-shooter on
his knee. He centered on the pass. A few seconds--and a big ram,
several feet ahead of the others, dashed into the notch. Pete grasped
his gun with both hands and fired. The ram reared and dropped just
within the rocky gateway. Pete saw another sheep jump over the ram and
disappear. Pete centered on the notch again and as the gray mass
bunched and crowded together to get through, he fired. Another sheep
toppled and fell. Still the sheep rushed on, crowding against the
rocks and trampling each other in a frantic endeavor to get through.