nd, this accomplished, the almost immediate
expulsion of his breath in little puffs was proof enough that he was
sleeping the peaceful sleep of the carefree.

A brisk breeze came at intervals to sway the tepee and snap the loose
flaps. Sometimes a lamb bleated in a sleepy tremolo; occasionally,
instead of puffing, Bowers snorted; but mostly it was as still as an
uninhabited world up there on the tip-top of the Rockies.

Suddenly Bowers half sprang from his blankets--wide-awake, alert,
listening intently. He had a notion that a sound had awakened him,
something foreign, unfamiliar. Holding his breath, he strained his ears
for a repetition. Everything was still. He stepped outside lightly. The
sheep lay on their bed-ground, quiet and contented. Had he been
dreaming? It must be. Too much shortening in the dough-gods probably.
He'd have to stir up a batch of light bread to-morrow. It was curious,
though--that strong impression of having heard something. He returned to
his blankets and was puffing again almost immediately.

It was not much after half-past three when the first ewe got up,
bleated for her lamb, and moved off slowly. Others rose, stood a moment
as though to get the sleep out of their eyes, and followed her example.
Ewes bleated for their lambs, lambs for their mothers, until quavering
calls in many keys made a din to awaken any sleeper, while the whole
mass of dingy, rounded woolly backs started moving from the bed-ground.

"Workin' like angels," Bowers muttered as he came out of the tepee
dressed in his erstwhile pillow, to see the sheep spreading out before
him.

He extinguished the lantern, replaced it in the tepee, and tied the
flap, while the faint, gray streak in the east grew brighter.

"Ouhee! You pinto gypsy! Whur you roamin' to now? Think I want to climb
up there and pry you out o' the rocks? Come back here 'fore I git in
your wig. Ouhee! Mother Biddies! I'll whittle on your hoofs, first thing
you know. You won't enjoy traveling' so fast, if you're a little tender
footed.

"That's better--now you're actin' like ladies!"

The air was redolent of sheep and sagebrush, and pink and amber streaks
shot up to paint out the dimming stars. Bowers drew a deep breath of
satisfaction. O man! but sheep-herding was a great life in summer--like
drawing, wages through a vacation. If those "High Society" folks that
the Denver _Post_ told of, them worse than Sodomites, steeped in sin and
extravagance, could kn