Down in the next coulee—­there were always coulees to cross, no matter in what direction one would travel—­he came near running plump into three riders, who were Irish Mallory, and Weary, and Pink.  They were riding down from the direction of the camp where were the women, and they caught sight of him immediately and gave chase.  Happy Jack had no mind to be rounded up by that trio; he dodged into the bushes, and though they dug long, unmerciful scratches in his person, clung to the shelter they gave and made off at top speed.  He could hear the others shouting at one another as they galloped here and there trying to locate him, and he skulked where the bushes were deepest, like a criminal in fear of lynching.

Luck, for once, was with him, and he got out into another brush-fringed coulee without being seen, and felt himself, for the present, safe from that portion of the Happy Family.  Thereafter he avoided religiously the higher ridges, and kept the direction more by instinct than by actual knowledge.  The sun grew hot again and he hurried on, shifting the sheepskin as the need impressed.

When at last he sighted again the sheep, they were very close.  Happy Jack grew cautious; he crept down upon the unsuspecting herder as stealthily as an animal hunting its breakfast.  Herders sometimes carry guns—­and the experience of last night burned hot in his memory.

Slipping warily from rock to rock, he was within a dozen feet, when a dog barked and betrayed his presence.  The herder did not have a gun.  He gave a yell of pure terror and started for camp after his weapon.  Happy Jack, yelling also, with long leaps followed after.  Twice the herder looked over his shoulder at the weird figure in gray hat and flapping sheepskin, and immediately after each glance his pace increased perceptibly.  Still Happy Jack, desperate beyond measure, doggedly pursued, and his long legs lessened at each jump the distance between.  From a spectacular viewpoint, it must have been a pretty race.

The herder, with a gasp, dove into the tent; into the tent Happy Jack dove after him—­and none too soon.  The hand of the herder had almost clasped his rifle when the weight of Happy bore him shrieking to the earthen floor.

“Aw, yuh locoed old fool, shut up, can’t yuh, a minute?” Happy Jack, with his fingers pressed against the windpipe of the other, had the satisfaction of seeing his request granted at once.  The shrieks died to mere gurgling.  “What I want uh you,” Happy went on crossly, “ain’t your lifeblood, yuh dam’ Swede idiot.  I want some clothes, and some grub; and I want to borry that pinto I seen picketed out in the hollow, down there.  Now, will yuh let up that yelling and act white, or must I pound some p’liteness into yuh?  Say!”

“By damn, Ay tank yo’ vas got soom crazy,” apologized the herder humbly, sanity growing in his pale blue eyes.  “Ay tank—­”