He knew, just as they all knew, that there had been no sheep to the south, unless one counted those that ranged across the Missouri river.
As the three forced their horses up the steep slope, the herder, sitting slouched upon a rock, glanced up at them dully.

He had a long stick, with which he was apathetically turning over the smaller stones within his reach, and as apathetically killing the black bugs that scuttled out from the moist earth beneath.

He desisted from this unexciting pastime as they drew near, and eyed them with the sullenness that comes of long isolation when the person's nature forbids that other extreme of babbling garrulity, for no man can live long months alone and remain perfectly normal.

Nature, that stern mistress, always exacts a penalty from us foolish mortals who would ignore the instincts she has wisely implanted within us for our good.
"Maybe," Weary began mildly and without preface, "you don't know this is private property.

Get busy with your dogs, and haze these sheep back on the bench." He waved his hand to the north.