Suddenly he straightened up in his saddle and rubbed his eyes. "Say, Bill," he called, "is that a bunch of sheep there, or are my eyes fooling me?" Before Bill could reply a dog barked and came racing toward them. "Well, if it ain't Pancho as I'm a sinner," was the man's delighted cry. Then the tinkle of a sheep bell reached their ears. They spurred their tired horses into a trot and soon reached the spot where once stood the camp tent. In the dim light they saw a freshly dug hole with a tent lying beside it, upon which was piled a miscellaneous assortment of food and camping utensils, mutely telling the story of how the camp outfit had been saved. Nearby on a pile of sheep skins and under an old blanket lay a boy sleeping soundly. The eager barking of the dog and the heavy tread of the horses awoke him, and with a start he sprang to his feet. His clothing was a mass of mud, his face so black and tear-stained that it was almost unrecognizable, but the sheepman sprang from his horse and grabbed him in his arms with a strange choking in his throat he could hardly conquer. "Why, Pablo boy, _muchacho mio_, how did you pull through this hell fire and save yourself and the sheep too?" he asked, patting the dirty cheeks and mud-filled hair. "The _patron_ told me to stay here till he returned," said the boy, "there are all the sheep, the ten markers, the three _campanas_, and the five _chivos_, that the _patron_ left with me. All are there." The child's eyes glowed with the pride of accomplishment. "Bill," said the sheepman, "what's that little feller's name what we used to recite about in school, him that did the stunt about standing on the burning deck?" "You mean Casabianca?" "That's him, that's the chap. Say, Pablo"--his voice choked and he swallowed hard before the words would come to his lips--"Pablo, you're Casabianca all righty, and then some, for that little feller didn't save his bacon by stayin' where he was tole to. You not only saved yours but twelve hundred of the best ewes and lambs in the state besides. I'll promise you that ole Santa Claus'll bring you somethin' mighty fine next Christmas to pay you for this here job." [Illustration] THE SHOOTING UP OF HORSE HEAD By permission _The Argonaut_, San Francisco, Cal. The town of Horse Head had turned over a new leaf. There was to be no more "shooting up" of the village. Patience ceased to be a virtue when the "Cross J" outfit shipped their last train of steers, and everybody in the gang came into town for a big time, which culminated in a general "shooting up" of the place. The lights in all the saloons were bored full of holes, the solitary street lamp-post, standing in front of the "Apache House"--and the pride of the heart of the old woman who kept the place--was riddled over and over again, and every woman in town scared into a fit of hysterics. Then the town people rose up in their wrath and called on the marshal to put a stop to it, or resign his office.