PAINTED ROCK
said Jeff, as he took his mouth-organ out of his shirt and went to look at the sheep. "I reckon they don't care much for boregas in Virginny. I dew wonder some why Paw hankers after sheep when he has cattle. A sheep is sheer muck to a steer."
He sat by the bank of the 'crick' and played his poor bits of tunes, and presently, as the sun westered and the thin shadows of the mesquites stretched two hours' journey on the grass, the sheep rose from their camp and started browsing. Jeff whistled for his dog, a lean mongrel with a big head and wistful eyes, and started to loaf the way the herd of sheep went. He played as he walked. Once more young Pan piped, and the haze at least danced. But his heart was heavy.
"I cayn't play wuth a darn," said Jeff. "I'm mighty anxious about Paw."
He put away his instrument and played no more. He spoke to his dog.
"Bob, old son, if that Walker puts lead into the ole man I'll—I'll blow a hole threw him a rat ked crawl threw."
38
