one of the enemy who was twice his size, wrestle with him and finally best him.  Evidently this particular black ant, though deceased, was of some importance, possibly an officer, for the little red ant seized him and bore him bodily to the rear where he in turn collapsed and was carried to the adjoining ant-hill by two of his comrades evidently detailed on ambulance work.  “Everybody scraps—­even the bugs,” said Pete.  “Them little red cusses sure ain’t scared o’ nothin’.”  Stream after stream of red ants hastened to reinforce their comrades on the barricade.  The battle became general.  Pete grew excited.  He was scraping up another barricade when he heard one of the dogs bark.  He glanced up.  The sheep, frightened by a buzzard that had swooped unusually close to them, bunched and shot toward the canon in a cloud of dust.  Pete jumped to his feet and ran swiftly toward the rock gateway to head them off.  He knew that they would make for the trail, and that those that did not get through the pass would trample the weaker sheep to death.  The dog on the canon side of the band raced across their course, snapping at the foremost in a sturdy endeavor to turn them.  But he could not.  He ran, nipped a sheep, and then jumped back to save himself from being cut to pieces by the blundering feet.  Young Pete saw that he could not reach the pass ahead of them.  Out of breath and half-sobbing as he realized the futility of his effort, he suddenly recalled an incident like this when Montoya, failing to head the band in a similar situation, had coolly shot the leader and had broken the stampede.

Pete immediately sat down, and rested the barrel of his six-shooter on his knee.  He centered on the pass.  A few seconds—­and a big ram, several feet ahead of the others, dashed into the notch.  Pete grasped his gun with both hands and fired.  The ram reared and dropped just within the rocky gateway.  Pete saw another sheep jump over the ram and disappear.  Pete centered on the notch again and as the gray mass bunched and crowded together to get through, he fired.  Another sheep toppled and fell.  Still the sheep rushed on, crowding against the rocks and trampling each other in a frantic endeavor to get through.  Occasionally one of the leaders leaped over the two dead sheep and disappeared down the trail.  But the first force of their stampede was checked.  Dropping his gun, Pete jumped up and footed it for the notch, waving his hat as he ran.  Bleating and bawling, the band turned slowly and swung parallel to the canon-rim.  The dogs, realizing that they could now turn the sheep back, joined forces, and running a ticklish race along the very edge of the canon, headed the band toward the safe ground to the west.  Pete, as he said later, “cussed ’em a plenty.”  When he took up his station between the band and the canon, wondering what Montoya would say when he returned.

When the old Mexican, hazing the burros across the mesa, saw Pete wave his hat, he knew that something unusual had happened.  Montoya shrugged his shoulders as Pete told of the stampede.