“Oh, you needn't look so sorry for us,” drawled the Native Son, jingling over toward him until only the fence and a few feet of space divided them. “Here's where you get yours, amigo. I wish you a pleasant day--and a long one!” He waved his hand in mocking adieu, touched his horse with his silver spurs, and rode gaily away down the coulee. “Here, sheepherder's your outfit. Ma-aa-a-a!” jeered Big Medicine. “You'll wisht, by cripes, you was a dozen men just like yuh before you're through with the deal. Haw-haw-haw-w!” There were others who, seeing Andy's grin, had something to say upon the subject before they left. Weary rode up, and looked undecidedly from Andy to the sheep, and back again. “If you don't feel like tackling it single-handed, I'll send--” “What do yuh think I am, anyway?” Andy interrupted crisply, “a Montgomery Ward two-for-a-quarter cowpuncher? Don't you fellows waste any time worrying over me!” The herders stared at Andy curiously when he swung in behind the tail-end of the band and kept pace with their slow moving, but they did not speak beyond shouting an occasional command to their dogs. Neither did Andy have anything to say, until he saw that they were swinging steadily to the west, instead of keeping straight north, as they had been told to do. Then he rode over to the nearest herder, who happened to be the bug-killer. “You don't want to get turned around,” he hinted quietly. “That's north, over there.” “I'm workin' fer the man that pays my wages,” the fellow retorted glumly, and waved an arm to a collie that was waiting for orders. The dog dropped his head, and ran around the right wing of the band, with sharp yelps and dartings here and there, turning them still more to the west. Andy hesitated, decided to leave the man alone for the present, and rode around to the other herder. “You swing these sheep north!” he commanded, disdaining preface or explanation. “I'm workin' for the man that pays my wages,” the herder made answer stolidly, and chewed steadily upon a quid of tobacco that had stained his lips unbecomingly. So they had talked the thing over--had those two herders--and were following a premeditated plan of defiance! Andy hooked at the man a minute. “You turn them sheep, damn you,” he commanded again, and laid a hand upon his saddle-horn suggestively. “You go to the devil, damn yuh,” advised the herder, and cocked a wary eye at him from under his hat-brim. Not all herders, let it be said in passing, take unto themselves the mental attributes of their sheep; there are those who believe that a bold front is better than weak compliance, and who will back that belief by a very bold front indeed. Andy appraised him mentally, decided that he was an able-bodied man and therefore fightable, and threw his right leg over the cantle with a quite surprising alacrity. “Are you going to turn them sheep?” Andy was taking off his coat when he made that inquiry.