“Good Lord, Spot,” he cried, “you’re not just a sheep. Sure as I live, you’re a——” But he didn’t finish telling what Spot was. Perhaps he didn’t know; and the ideas that were glowing dimly in his brain did not yet take the form of a concrete thought. But more likely his attention was merely called away. For at that instant he saw his camp-tender advancing slowly up the trail. CHAPTER XI Hugh Gaylord had, like all men, experienced some rather violent surprises in his time. They had been coming exceptionally thick and fast since he had come to Smoky Land. His changed attitude toward life and his behavior in regard to the flocks had been amazing experiences in themselves. He had just experienced a rather violent shock on beholding the warlike behavior of Spot. The previous night he had been through the unusual experience of finding the body of a murdered man in a tent. But he suddenly realized that he was facing the most amazing situation of all. Death, after all, in some manner or other comes to all living creatures. Hugh had no real reason for amazement at that still form in the herder’s tent. He was ready to confess he didn’t know a great deal about sheep: possibly Spot’s episode with the coyote would not have so surprised a more experienced herder. But now he felt as if a number of his preconceived ideas had been violently knocked out of him, and that is always dumbfounding. His camp-tender was not a Mexican, nor yet a laboring man of a certain type, but a girl. He had seen some thousands of girls in his life, yet he found himself staring at the slim form on the horse as if he were gazing upon a miracle of nature. Every experience of the past few days might have been in some manner expected and he had only reacted because of qualities within himself; his experiences with Broken Fang and the coyote were wholly fitting in this wild, mountainous land, but he had never dreamed but that he had left all womankind a thousand miles behind him. This was a man’s land, not a place for the tender flesh of girls. This was the home of savage beasts, a region of dark forests and forbidding peaks, never a land of gentleness and ease such as women should know. He realized with a start that evidently his good manners had been left behind him also, for he was gazing at her in open-mouthed astonishment. If the girl on the horse had been an Indian squaw, even an aged and wrinkled frontiersman’s dame, he would have felt that the axis of the world still stood at the proper angle. But this girl was white, in spite of her tan and the high color—not put on with a rabbit’s foot—in her cheeks. She was young, not more than twenty-two at most. And strangest of all she was pretty past all denial.