Haze them stinking things as far north as they'll travel before dark, and at daylight start 'em going again.

Where's your camp, anyhow ?" "None of your business," mumbled the bugkiller sourly.
Weary scanned the undulating slope beyond the fence, saw no sign of a camp, and glanced uncertainly at his fellows.

"Well, it don't matter much where it is; you see to it you don't sleep within five miles of here, or you're liable to have bad dreams.

Hit the trail, now!" They waited inside the fence until the retreating sheep lost their individuality as blatting animals, ambling erratically here and there, while they moved toward the brow of the hill, and merged into a great, gray blotch against the faint green of the new grass--a blotch from which rose again that vibrant, sing-song humming of many voices mingled.
Then they rode back down the coulee to their own work, taking it for granted that the trespassing was an incident which would not be repeated--by those particular sheep, at any rate.
It was, therefore, with something of a shock that the Happy Family awoke the next morning to hear Pink's melodious treble shouting in the bunk-house at sunrise next morning: "'G'wa-a-y round' 'em, Shep! Seven black ones in the coulee!" Men who know well the West are familiar with that facetious call.
"Ah, what's the matter with yuh ?" Irish raised a rumpled, brown head from his pillow, and blinked sleepily at him.

"I've been dreaming I was a sheepherder, all night." "Well, you've got the swellest chance in the world to 'make every dream cone true, dearie,'" Pink retorted.