"Well, look at those sons o' guns hike," he said, baring his teeth venomously, "and every band headed for Hidden Water! Go it, you tarriers--and if you can't stop to eat the grass, tromple on it! But wait, and if I don't push in some Greaser's face to-day it'll be because every one of them bands is headin' for the western pass." He clambered slowly down from his perch and swung up into the saddle. "Talkin' never did do much good with a sheep-herder," he observed wisely. "As the old judge used to say, 'you've got to appeal to his better nature'--with a club." The most southerly of the seven bands was strung out in marching order, the goats in front, the hungriest sheep in the lead; and on both flanks and far behind, the groups and clusters of feeders, pushing out into the grassy flats and rearing up against the trees and bushes. Without a word to the herders Creede and Hardy took down their ropes and, swinging the _hondas_ upon the goats, turned the advance guard northwest. The main herd and the drag followed, and then the herders, all in a bunch for courage. "This is the last time I talk to you," said Creede, his voice stifled with anger. "Turn to the north, now, and keep a-goin'." He put spurs to his horse and rode west to the second herd, and by noon they had turned all seven toward the western pass. Every herder had his cow's horn and some of them were blowing continually, but no one answered, and a messenger was sent east for aid. They camped for the heat of the day, making smoke upon the ridges, but no help came. As the sun sank low and the curly-necked Merinos rose up from their huddle and began to drift the Mexicans turned them perforce to the north, looking back sulkily toward the mouth of Hell's Hip Pocket where other smokes rose against the sky. Until the sun set they travelled, making their three miles and more, and not until they had corralled their flocks for the night did Chico and Grande, the little and big terrors of the sheep, give way from their strenuous labors. It was two hours after dark when they rode wearily into the camp at Carrizo Creek. The fire was dying down to embers and the _rodeo_ outfit, worn out, had turned in, some in the tin house, others outside, under the brush _ramada_ to escape the dew. No one moved as they approached but Creede did not scruple to wake up Jim Clark in order to learn the news. "How'd the old horn work?" he inquired cheerily. "No good," grunted Clark, rolling over. "Aw, go on, wouldn't they chase ye?" "Nope. Nothin' doin'. Say, lemme sleep, will ye?" "Sure," said Creede, "when I git through with you. Which way was them sheep travellin'?" "Well, some was goin' straight up over the Four Peaks and the rest was p'intin' west. You and your old horn--I nigh blowed my fool head off and never got a rise! They was all blowin' them horns over by the Pocket this aft." "Um," said Creede, "they was _all_ blowin', hey? And what else was they doin'?"