“Vic used to keep me broke, begging money for the shooting gallery down near our place,” said Helen May.  “I used to shoot there a little.”

“Popgun stuff, but good practice,” said Starr succinctly.  “Got a gun on the ranch?”

“No, only Vic’s little single-shot twenty-two.  That’s good enough for jack rabbits.  What would we want a gun for?”

Starr laughed.  “Season’s always open for coyotes, and you could pick up a little money in bounties now and then, if you had a gun,” he said.  “That would keep you out in the open, too.  I dunno but what I’ve got a rifle I could let you have.  I did have one, a little too light a calibre for me, but it would be just about right for you.  It’s a 25-35 carbine.  I’m right sure I’ve got that gun on hand yet.  I’ll bring it over to you.  You sure ought to have a gun.”

They were nearing the goats scattered over the slope that was shadiest, chosen for Vic’s comfort and not because of any thought for his charges.  Vic himself was sprawled in the shade of a huge rock, and for pastime he was throwing rocks at every ground squirrel that poked its nose out of a hole.  The two hundred goats were scattered far and wide, but as long as Billy was nibbling a bush within sight, Vic did not worry about the rest.  He lifted himself to a sitting posture and grinned when the two came up.

“Didn’t think to bring any pie, I s’pose?” he hinted broadly, and grinned companionably at Starr.

“You’ve had two handouts since lunch.  I guess you’ll last another hour,” Helen May retorted unfeelingly.  “See the dog that followed Mr. Starr out from town, Vic!  We’re going to see if he can herd goats.”

“Well, if he can, he’s got my permission, that’s a cinch.”

“I do believe he can; see him look at them!  His name’s Pat, and he likes me awfully well.”

“Now, where does he get that idea?” taunted Vic, and winked openly at Starr, who was good enough to smile over what he considered a very poor joke.

“Well, let’s see you bunch ’em, Pat.”  Starr made a wide, sweeping gesture with his left arm, his eyes darting a quick look at the girl.

Pat looked up at him, waggled his stub of a tail, and darted down the slope to the left, now and then uttering a yelp.  Scattered goats lifted heads to look, their jaws working comically sidewise as though they felt they must dispose of that particular mouthful before something happened to prevent.  As Pat neared them, they scrambled away from him, running to the right, which was toward the bulk of the band.

Down into the Basin itself the dog ran, after a couple of goats that had strayed out into the level.  These he drove back in a panic of haste, dodging this way and that, nipping, yelping now and then, until they had joined the others.  Then he went on to the further fringes of the hand, which evened like the edge of a pie crust under the practised fingers of a good cook.