I reckon that when a shepherd goes into cow-land, it’s like taking a ship into fresh water to knock off the barnacles. He’s a queer old coot. Imagine a man of his cognomen, add the smell of sheep, dress him up around the neck like a preacher, tuck his pants into the top of a pair of heavy boots, and you’ve got a portrait of Old Testament. He rides a little calico bronc, with one cropped ear and a rat-tail, and calls it Ebenezer. The only way, I figure, that he could ever hand out salvation would be by correspondence. “Now, this here Le-mule Bowles,” remarks the old boy, “do you think I could induce him to come into the vineyard?” “Muley will go into anything that’s got a door on it,” says I. “Also, he’ll take anything what ain’t nailed down.” “I fear me it will be a task,” he says, sad-like, and then he sort of brightens up. “Have you ever considered your soul?” “I have no soul,” says I. “Say not that you are a lost sheep,” he chides me, and it makes me sore, and I points off down the valley. “We’re in cow-land now, old-timer, so you lay off on that lost-sheep stuff. Sabe? Down here they calls ’em plain strays.” We plods down into the Sleeping Creek country, and stops at Hank Padden’s place for dinner. Old Testament and Hank are old friends, but Hank don’t more than give me a nod. I reckon he ain’t forgot what he thought was Muley’s voice, and he blames me, too. When we gets ready to leave Hank acts like I had a contagious disease. “Drop in any old time, Tilton,” says Hank. “Glad to see you.” “Me, too, Hank?” I asks, and he gives me a hard look. “You travels on your own responsibility,” he replies. “I wonder what Hank is sore at me for?” I asks Old Testament, a little later, but he shakes his head, and mumbles something about the flocks on the seven hills and the wrath to come. “Did you tell him that I bought them sheep?” I asks, and he nods. “Yea. I did not lie, Henry Peck. I know naught of Bowles.” “I suppose you also told him that I was going to stock this here range with sheep, didn’t you?” “I merely told him that I surmised so.” We rides almost to the Cross J, when we overtakes Abe Evans, the depot agent at Paradise. “Gosh! I’m glad you caught me,” pants Abe, “I never was built to fit a saddle, and this here nag ain’t no rocking-chair. Here’s a telegram for Lemule Bowles, charges paid. You sign for it, Hen, and let me go back home.” We pilgrims on to the ranch, but Muley ain’t there. There’s a note on the table which orates that he’ll be there at three o’clock, and it’s addressed to Weinie Lopp, of the Triangle. “This here telegram ought to be opened,” opines Old Testament, who is as nosey as a pet coon. “A telegram always means that something is going to happen, and it’s better to be prepared.” I tears the cover off and looks her over. It says— Will arrive your town this date meet me with a vehicle. And she’s signed Frederick & Quincy. I looks at my watch and decides on quick action.