Neither did Andy have anything to say, until he saw that they were swinging steadily to the west, instead of keeping straight north, as they had been told to do.

Then he rode over to the nearest herder, who happened to be the bug-killer.
"You don't want to get turned around," he hinted quietly.

"That's north, over there." "I'm workin' fer the man that pays my wages," the fellow retorted glumly, and waved an arm to a collie that was waiting for orders.

The dog dropped his head, and ran around the right wing of the band, with sharp yelps and dartings here and there, turning them still more to the west.
Andy hesitated, decided to leave the man alone for the present, and rode around to the other herder.
"You swing these sheep north!" he commanded, disdaining preface or explanation.
"I'm workin' for the man that pays my wages," the herder made answer stolidly, and chewed steadily upon a quid of tobacco that had stained his lips unbecomingly.
So they had talked the thing over--had those two herders--and were following a premeditated plan of defiance! Andy hooked at the man a minute.

"You turn them sheep, damn you," he commanded again, and laid a hand upon his saddle-horn suggestively.
"You go to the devil, damn yuh," advised the herder, and cocked a wary eye at him from under his hat-brim.