After breakfast Bud and Lorry sat out in the sun, enjoying the slow warmth.  The morning air was still keen in the shade.  Bondsman lay between them, watching the distant horses.

“He won’t let ’em get far into the timber,” said Shoop.  “He sure saves me a lot of steps, roundin’ up them hosses.”

“I can whistle Gray Leg to me,” said Lorry.  “Then the other horses’ll come.”

Shoop nodded.  “What you goin’ to do to-day?”

“Me?  Well, it’s so kind of quiet and big up here I feel like settin’ around and takin’ it all in.  I ain’t been in the high country much.  ’Course I don’t aim to camp on you.”

“You’re sure welcome,” said Shoop heartily.  “It gets lonesome up here.  But if you ain’t got no reg’lar plan I was thinkin’ of ridin’ over to Sheep Crossin’—­and mebby on down to Jason.”

“Suits me fine!”

Shoop heaved himself up.  Lorry whistled shrilly.  Gray Leg, across the mesa, raised his head.  Lorry whistled again.  The pony lowered his head and nipped at the bunch-grass as he moved slowly toward the house.  Shoop’s horses watched him, and finally decided that they would follow.  Gray Leg stopped just out of reach.

“Get in the corral, there!” said Lorry, waving his arm.

The pony shied and trotted into the corral, the other horses following.

Bondsman was not exactly disgruntled, but he might have been happier.  Shoop had told him to “keep house” until they returned.

“It’s a funny thing,” said Shoop as he mounted.  “Now, if I was to tell that dog he was gettin’ too old to ramble with me, he’d feel plumb sick and no account.  But when I tell him he’s got to do somethin’—­like watchin’ the house—­he thinks it’s a reg’lar job.  He’s gettin’ old, but, just like folks, he wants to think he’s some use.  You can’t tell me dogs don’t know.  Why, I’ve seen young folks so durned fussy about their grandmas and grandpas, trying to keep ’em from putterin’ around, that the old folks just nacherally folded their hands and set down and died, havin’ nothin’ else to do.  And a dog is right proud about bein’ able to do somethin’.  Bondsman there keeps me so busy thinkin’ of how I can keep him busy that I ain’t got time to shine my boots.  That there dog bosses me around somethin’ scandalous.”

“That’s right,” acquiesced Lorry.  “I seen a ole mule once that they turned loose from a freight wagon because he was too old to pull his own weight.  And that mule just followed the string up and down the hills and across the sand, doin’ his best to tell the skinner that he wanted to get back into the harness.  He would run alongside the other mules, and try to get back in his old place.  They would just naturally kick him, and he’d turn and try to wallop ’em back.  Then he’d walk along, with his head hangin’ down and his ears floppin’, as if he was plumb sick of bein’ free and wanted to die.  The last day he was too stiff to get on his feet, so me and Jimmy Harp heaved