“You take it cool,” spluttered Bob.

“No use taking it any other way,” replied Welton.  “But the situation is serious.  We’ve got our plant in shape, and our supplies in, and our men engaged.  It would be bad enough to shut down with all that expense.  But the main trouble is, we’re under contract to deliver our mill run to Marshall & Harding.  We can’t forfeit that contract and stay in business.”

“What are you going to do about it?” asked Bob.

“Get on the wires to your father in Washington,” replied Welton.  “Lucky, your friend Baker’s power project is only four miles away; we can use his ’phone.”

But at the edge of town they met Lejeune.

“I got de ship in pasture,” he told Bob.  “But hees good for not more dan one wik.”

“Look here, Leejune,” said Welton.  “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to look up another range for this summer.  Of course, we’ll pay any loss or damage in the matter.  It looks impossible to do anything with Plant.”

The Frenchman threw up both hands and broke into voluble explanations.  From them the listeners gathered more knowledge in regard to the sheep business than they could have learned by observation in a year.  Briefly, it was necessary that the sheep have high-country feed, at once; the sheepmen apportioned the mountains among themselves, so that each had his understood range; it would now be impossible to find anywhere another range; only sometimes could one trade localities with another, but that must be arranged earlier in the season before the flocks are in the hills—­in short, affairs were at a critical point, where Lejeune must have feed, and no other feed was to be had except that for which he had in all confidence contracted.  Welton listened thoughtfully, his eyes between his horses.

“Can you run those sheep in, at night, or somehow?”

The Frenchman’s eyes sparkled.

“I run ship two year in Yosemite Park,” he bragged.  “No soldier fin’ me.”

“That’s no great shakes,” said Welton drily, “from what I’ve seen of Park soldiers.  If you can sneak these sheep across without getting caught, you do it.”

“I snik ship across all right,” said Lejeune.  “But I can’ stop hees track.  The ranger he know I cross all right.”

“What’s the penalty?” asked Welton.

“Mos’ly ’bout one hundred dollars,” replied Lejeune promptly.  “Mebbe five hundred.”

Welton sighed.  “Is that the limit?” he asked.  “Not more than five hundred?”

“No.  Dat all.”

“Well, it’ll take a good half of the rent to get you in, if they soak us the limit; but you’re up against it, and we’ll stand back of you.  If we agreed to give you that grazing, by God, you’ll get it, as long as that land is ours.”

He nodded and drove on, while Lejeune, the true sheepman’s delight in dodging the officers burning strong within his breast, turned his mule’s head to the lower country.