Al Clemmons had worked his little flock a long way from sheep limit; Rawlins had some trouble locating him. The old man was crippling around with rheumatism, feeling rather blue, full of forebodings of hard luck for sheepmen in the Dry Wood country that year. It was starting badly, he said; no rain, no grass, sage making a slow growth. Nature was laying a conspiracy against the sheepmen, especially the little ones, trying to wipe them out for good.
The old flockmaster had ranged his sheep miles from the place where Rawlins had first encountered him, his battered wagon on top of a hill, as sheep wagons usually are stationed, overlooking a rugged and unpromising stretch of country that seemed to offer sufficient proof of the old man's contention that nature had turned its hand against the sheepmen in that place. He was about ready to quit, he declared, although not very heartily. If he could find somebody fool enough to buy him out he'd strike out for some hot springs he knew about over in the Wind River reservation and soak the misery out of his hinges. But there were no such fools as that ranging around any more. They seemed to be all used up.
To make conditions morg gloomy, the Government had notified sheepmen that only half the usual number
