All the small ranchers and disreputable stragglers about that immediate vicinity were of one opinion in regard to the new sheep-man. This particular section of the country promised to be soon over-crowded with cattle and horses. There was no room in their mountains for sheep. Livingston, the interloper, must vacate. That was the unanimous decision of the whole Harris faction. This gang was a mixture of badness, a scum of the roughest element from the face of the globe, which in new countries invariably drifts close upon the heels of the first settlers. It is the herald of civilization, but fortunately goes on before its advance to other fields or is deeply buried in its midst. The breeds, pliable to the strong will of Joe Harris, were not an unimportant factor, and among these, old Mother White Blanket was the ruling spirit. She lived in a tepee not a rod to the left of Harris' squalid log buildings. Her daughter was the cattle-man's wife, therefore the old woman had particular rights about the premises, a mother-in-law's rights, more honored and considered among Indians than among civilized whites. Her tepee was the usual Indian affair, its conical, pointed top, dingy with the smoke of many camp-fires. Back of the old woman's tepee, at various distances, stood a few ordinary wall tents. These were occupied by the families of some breeds who were working for Harris. The whole, heightened by numerous dogs and the old squaw stooping over her fire, presented the appearance of a small Indian camp, such as may be seen about any reservation. The old woman's rattle-trap cart stood beside her lodge, for she had her periods of wandering, after the manner of her race. The running gears of a couple of dilapidated wagons were drawn up between the other tents, and not far away two closely hobbled horses, unmistakably Indian, for horses resemble their human associates, fed eagerly upon the short, new grass. At an early hour, when the rising sun cast rosy lights upon every grass-covered mountain top, when bird notes from the distant brush sounded the most melodious, when the chanticleer in the barnyard became loudest in his crowing, when the dew of night began to steam upward in its vitality-giving stream, when the pigs with a grunt rose lazily upon their fore-legs, and old Mother White Blanket bent over the smoke of her newly built camp-fire, the girl school-teacher came out of her room and leaned against the smooth rain-washed logs of the building. She drew in with every deep breath new vitality to add to her plentiful fund of it, she saw the rosy glow upon the mountains, listened in awe and rapture to the bird notes from the brush, and finally brought herself back to more material things; to old Mother White Blanket and the Indian scene spread out before her.