Ah, those sheep! How many times in the fever of heat and work and weariness had Hardy cursed them, his tongue seeking unbidden the wickedest words of the range; how many times had he cursed Jim Swope, and Jasper Swope, the Mexicans, and all who had rushed in to help accomplish their ruin. And as the sun beat down and no clouds came into the sky he cursed himself, blindly, for all that had come to pass. One man--only one--at the mouth of Hell's Hip Pocket, and the sheep might have been turned back; but he himself had seen the dust-cloud and let it pass--and for that the cattle died. The sheep were far away, feeding peacefully in mountain valleys where the pines roared in the wind and the nights were cool and pleasant; but if the rain came and young grass sprang up on Bronco Mesa they would come again, and take it in spite of them. Yes, even if the drought was broken and the cattle won back their strength, that great army would come down from the north once more and sheep them down to the rocks! But one thing Hardy promised himself--forgetting that it was the bootless oath of old Bill Johnson, who was crazy now and hiding in the hills--he would kill the first sheep that set foot on Bronco Mesa, and the next, as long as he could shoot; and Jasp Swope might answer as he would. Yet, why think of sheep and schemes of belated vengeance?--the grass was gone; the browse was cleaned; even the _palo verde_ trees were growing scarce. Day by day he must tramp farther and farther along the ridge, and all that patient, trusting army behind, waiting for him to find more trees! Already the weakest were left behind and stood along the trails, eying him mournfully; yet work as he would he could not feed the rest. There was no fine-drawn distinction now--every _palo verde_ on the hillside fell before his axe, whether it was fine-leaved and short-thorned, or rough and spiny; and the cattle ate them all. Mesquite and cat-claw and ironwood, tough as woven wire and barbed at every joint, these were all that were left except cactus and the armored _sahuaros_. In desperation he piled brush beneath clumps of fuzzy _chollas_, the thorniest cactus that grows, and burned off the resinous spines; but the silky bundles of stickers still lurked beneath the ashes, and the cattle that ate them died in agony. Once more Hardy took his ax and went out in search of _palo verdes_, high or low, young or old. There was a gnarled trunk, curling up against a rocky butte and protected by two spiny _sahuaros_ that stood before it like armed guards, and he climbed up the rock to reach it. Chopping away the first _sahuaro_ he paused to watch it fall. As it broke open like a giant melon on the jagged rocks below, the cattle crowded about it eagerly, sniffing at the shattered parts--and then the hardiest of them began suddenly to eat!