a
band of sheep. He sprung that on me today, when I thought I was about
to begin my career as a capitalist. Instead of that, I've got a year
ahead of me at ten dollars a month less than the ordinary herder gets.
I just wanted to know."

"Sheepmen are like sand under the feet when it comes to dealin' with
'em; I never knew one that was in the same place twice. You've got a
lot of tricks to learn in this trade, and I guess this is one of them.
I don't believe Tim ever intends to let you in on shares; that ain't
his style. Never did take anybody in on shares but Joan, that I know
of. It looks to me like Tim's workin' you for all he can git out of
you. You'll herd for Tim a year at forty dollars, and teach Joan a
thousand dollars' worth while you're doin' it. You're a mighty
obligin' feller, it looks like to me."

Mackenzie sat thinking it over. He rolled it in his mind quite a
while, considering its most unlikely side, considering it as a
question of comparative values, trying to convince himself that, if
nothing more came of it than a year's employment, he would be even
better off than teaching school. If Tim was indeed planning to profit
doubly by him during that year, Joan could have no knowledge of his
scheme, he was sure.

On Joan's account he would remain, he told himself, at last, feeling
easier and less simple for the decision. Joan needed him, she counted
on him. Going would be a sad disappointment, a bitter discouragement,
to her. All on Joan's account, of course, he would remain; Joan, with
her russet hair, the purity of October skies in her eyes. Why, of
course. Duty made it plain to him; solely on account of Joan.

"I'd rather be a foot-loose shearer, herdin' in between like I do,
than the richest sheepman on the range," said Dad. "They're tied down
to one little spot; they work out a hole in their piece of the earth
like a worm. It ain't no life. I can have more fun on forty dollars
than Tim Sullivan can out of forty thousand."

Dad got out his greasy duck coat with sheepskin collar, such as
cattlemen and sheepmen, and all kinds of outdoor men in that country
wore, for the night was cool and damp with dew. Together they sat
smoking, no more discussion between them, the dogs out of sight down
the hill near the sheep.

Not a sound came out of the sheep, bedded on the hillside in
contentment, secure in their trust of men and dogs. All day as they
grazed there rose a murmur out of them, as of discontent,