Fargo leaned back in his chair and laughed. The sound burst out suddenly above the even murmur of his talk, and it was no less terrible to hear than the bay of the pack a few minutes before. It was a wild, harsh sound,—and African travelers might have been given cause to remember the hyenas, laughing on the sun-baked hills. It pleased him to recall that scene in the forest beyond the creek, in which his pack of dogs had killed the cub. It moved him in unlovely, dark ways. The little bear had been a clumsy, furry, amiable little creature—representing what is perhaps the most lovable breed of all the wild animals—and the pack had made short and terrible work of him. “There’s ten of ’em,” Fargo went on, “and there ain’t no one to guard the flock. That one big shepherd dog would last quick—he wouldn’t be able to bluff off them hounds of mine like he could bluff coyotes. And then they’d have the time of their lives—the time of their lives.” “You mean—take ’em and sick ’em on?” José asked. “I’ve got a better way than that. Of course one of us will have to take ’em and show ’em the way until they get on the track of the flock, and of course that one will have to be me. I’m the only living man that can handle ’em—you remember the night that old Ben got out and how he pretty near killed that little cowman from Naptha. There’s a little medicine I’ve got to give ’em before I go, and that means—for you to take a little ride over to Newt Hillguard’s.” José half-closed his eyes. He had begun to understand. “I’ve always cussed at Newt for keepin’ that little band of Shropshires in his back lot, but I’m glad now he didn’t get rid of them,” Fargo went on. “You’re to bring back a sheep in your saddle—a lamb ’ll do, or any old ewe he was about to slaughter. Then, after we get through here, all I’ll have to do is start up the old Horse Creek trail with that pack of dogs. It’ll be a couple of hours before I can get started, and it’ll take till dark to get to the sheep camp, but dark’s the best time for a sheep-killin’ dog to work, anyhow. The sheep are bunched together, and it doesn’t take so much runnin’. And I got to be on hand to call ’em back and round ’em up when they’re done.” The face of the Mexican was suddenly crafty. “I suppose wantin’ to see the fun hasn’t anything to do with your goin’?” he suggested. Fargo laughed again. “I’m not sayin’ it won’t be worth watching,” he agreed. “But you know I can always round ’em up with my whistle. José—to-night will see the end of the sheep business for time to come.”