Men have their season on the mesa as much as plants and four-footed things, and one is not like to meet them out of their time.  For example, at the time of rodeos, which is perhaps April, one meets free riding vaqueros who need no trails and can find cattle where to the layman no cattle exist.  As early as February bands of sheep work up from the south to the high Sierra pastures.  It appears that shepherds have not changed more than sheep in the process of time.  The shy hairy men who herd the tractile flocks might be, except for some added clothing, the very brethren of David.  Of necessity they are hardy, simple livers, superstitious, fearful, given to seeing visions, and almost without speech.  It needs the bustle of shearings and copious libations of sour, weak wine to restore the human faculty.  Petite Pete, who works a circuit up from the Ceriso to Red Butte and around by way of Salt Flats, passes year by year on the mesa trail, his thick hairy chest thrown open to all weathers, twirling his long staff, and dealing brotherly with his dogs, who are possibly as intelligent, certainly handsomer.

A flock’s journey is seven miles, ten if pasture fails, in a windless blur of dust, feeding as it goes, and resting at noons.  Such hours Pete weaves a little screen of twigs between his head and the sun—­the rest of him is as impervious as one of his own sheep—­and sleeps while his dogs have the flocks upon their consciences.  At night, wherever he may be, there Pete camps, and fortunate the trail-weary traveler who falls in with him.  When the fire kindles and savory meat seethes in the pot, when there is a drowsy blether from the flock, and far down the mesa the twilight twinkle of shepherd fires, when there is a hint of blossom underfoot and a heavenly whiteness on the hills, one harks back without effort to Judaea and the Nativity.  But one feels by day anything but good will to note the shorn shrubs and cropped blossom-tops.  So many seasons’ effort, so many suns and rains to make a pound of wool!  And then there is the loss of ground-inhabiting birds that must fail from the mesa when few herbs ripen seed.

Out West, the west of the mesas and the unpatented hills, there is more sky than any place in the world.  It does not sit flatly on the rim of earth, but begins somewhere out in the space in which the earth is poised, hollows more, and is full of clean winey winds.  There are some odors, too, that get into the blood.  There is the spring smell of sage that is the warning that sap is beginning to work in a soil that looks to have none of the juices of life in it; it is the sort of smell that sets one thinking what a long furrow the plough would turn up here, the sort of smell that is the beginning of new leafage, is best at the plant’s best, and leaves a pungent trail where wild cattle crop.  There is the smell of sage at sundown, burning sage from campoodies and sheep camps, that travels on the thin blue wraiths of smoke; the kind of smell that gets into the hair and garments, is not much liked except upon long acquaintance, and every Paiute and shepherd smells of it indubitably.  There is the palpable smell of the bitter dust that comes up from the alkali flats at the end of the dry seasons, and the smell of rain from the wide-mouthed canons.