Harry was discovering that the West was very different from the picturesque idea she had had of it. Her part in it, too, was not the picturesque part she had thought to play. Harry saw the West only from its unromantic exterior; not--as Rob was seeing it--as the foundation for as great a romance as the world has ever seen: the transforming of the waste places of the earth into a garden of plenty. If Rob had only told her of the dreams and plans that inspired him--but Rob was no talker. Now, as Harry watched him, she felt only the vague discomfort of pity for his overwhelming task. The heat made her sick, the glare tortured her eyes; she was afraid of the lizards and horned toads that darted across the sand about her; but if she went back to the tent she knew that she would soon become lonely and homesick. She decided to take a short walk. Looking over her shoulder toward the foothills, she frowned questioningly. "Rob, who is that up there?" "Hey?" Rob straightened himself laboriously and glanced in the direction in which she pointed. As yet no sheep had bothered them. One or two flocks had come down from the foothills on their way across to the reserve, but Rob had warned them off. Seeing that their favorite bedding ground had been filed on, the herders had pushed on to the "scab" land. "Aren't those sheep?" asked Harry. "They are," Rob said slowly. Resting on his shovel, he gazed up at the point where the buttes divided to form a deep coulee. The leaders of the flock had come rather slowly over the crest of the hill, but now the whole herd came pouring down the glen. The thousand or more animals bleated crazily as they smelled the water and the deep, rich grass below them. Two sheep dogs maneuvered them with short, sharp yelps, glancing back for directions to the sheep herder who stood above and with his hat signaled to them what to do. Walking toward the glen, Rob motioned to the sheep herder to come down. At first the man paid no attention, but when Rob had whistled sharply two or three times, he slowly began to descend the hill. "He doesn't want to hear me," Rob said. "You'll see. He'll pretend he doesn't understand. Those Mexes are a coony lot; pretend to be stupid, but are sharp as nails when it comes to hanging on to a good grazing ground." Watching the sheep flow along, Rob and Harry waited. After a while the herder came down the glen toward them. "Say, he's not a Mex at all!" Rob exclaimed. "He's an American! It must be that herder of Joyce's." The herder, who was a good-looking, heavily built fellow about twenty years old, stopped and looked at Rob without speaking. His felt hat was drawn forward over his eyes. He carried a heavy stick that was thick and knotted at the end. "How do!" he said, glancing inquiringly from brother to sister. "I suppose you know that this land has been filed on?" Rob began. "I'll have to ask you not to herd your sheep in 'round here." "Who's filed on it?" "I have."