It was now late, too late, and the sheep were too tired to travel, so Pedro made unusual preparations for the night:  two big fires at the entrance to the canon, and a platform fifteen feet up in a tree for his own bed.  The dog could look out for himself.

VIII.  ROARING IN THE CANON

Pedro knew that the big Bear was coming; for the fifty sheep in the little canon were not more than an appetizer for such a creature.  He loaded his gun carefully as a matter of habit and went up-stairs to bed.  Whatever defects his dormitory had the ventilation was good, and Pedro was soon a-shiver.  He looked down in envy at his dog curled up by the fire; then he prayed that the saints might intervene and direct the steps of the Bear toward the flock of some neighbor, and carefully specified the neighbor to avoid mistakes.  He tried to pray himself to sleep.  It had never failed in church when he was at the Mission, so why now?  But for once it did not succeed.  The fearsome hour of midnight passed, then the gray dawn, the hour of dull despair, was near.  Tampico felt it, and a long groan vibrated through his chattering teeth.  His dog leaped up, barked savagely, the sheep began to stir, then went backing into the gloom; there was a rushing of stampeding sheep and a huge, dark form loomed up.  Tampico grasped his gun and would have fired, when it dawned on him with sickening horror that the Bear was thirty feet high, his platform was only fifteen, just a convenient height for the monster.  None but a madman would invite the Bear to eat by shooting at him now.  So Pedro flattened himself face downward on the platform, and, with his mouth to a crack, he poured forth prayers to his representative in the sky, regretting his unconventional attitude and profoundly hoping that it would be overlooked as unavoidable, and that somehow the petitions would get the right direction after leaving the under side of the platform.

In the morning he had proof that his prayers had been favorably received.  There was a Bear-track, indeed, but the number of black sheep was unchanged, so Pedro filled his pocket with stones and began his usual torrent of remarks as he drove the flock.

“Hyah, Capitan—­you huajalote,” as the dog paused to drink.  “Bring back those ill-descended sons of perdition,” and a stone gave force to the order, which the dog promptly obeyed.  Hovering about the great host of grumbling hoofy locusts, he kept them together and on the move, while Pedro played the part of a big, noisy, and troublesome second.

As they journeyed through the open country the sheep-herder’s eye fell on a human figure, a man sitting on a rock above them to the left.  Pedro gazed inquiringly; the man saluted and beckoned.  This meant “friend”; had he motioned him to pass on it might have meant, “Keep away or I shoot.”  Pedro walked toward him a little way and sat down.  The man came forward.  It was Lan Kellyan, the hunter.