He slunk away from them to a corner of the eating-house, feeling the stigma of their contempt, yet afraid to go out into the street where his enemy might be waiting for him.  Much of death and blood and recklessness “Town” had seen and condoned, but cowardice was the unforgivable sin.  It balked the rude justice of these frontiersmen and tampered with their code, and Simpson knew that the game had gone against him.

“What was it all about?  Were they in earnest, or was it only their way of amusing themselves?” inquired Mary Carmichael, who had slipped into Mrs. Clark’s kitchen after the men at the table had taken things in hand.

“Jim Rodney was in earnest, an’ he had reason to be.  That man Simpson was paid by a cattle outfit—­now, mind, I ain’t sayin’ which—­to get Jim Rodney’s sheep off the range.  They had threatened him and cut the throats of two hundred of his herd as a warning, but Jim went right on grazin’ ’em, same as he had always been in the habit of doing.  Well, I’m told they up and makes Simpson an offer to get rid of the sheep.  Jim has over five thousand, an’ it’s just before lambing, and them pore ewes, all heavy, is being druv’ down to Watson’s shearing-pens, that Jim always shears at.  Jim an’ two herders and a couple of dawgs—­least, this is the way I heard it—­is drivin’ ’em easy, ’cause, as I said before, it’s just before lambing.  It does now seem awful cruel to me to shear just before lambing, but that’s their way out here.

“Well, nothing happens, and Jim ain’t more’n two hours from the pens an’ he comes to that place on the road that branches out over the top of a canon, and there some one springs out of a clump of willows an’ dashes into the herd and drives the wether that’s leading right over the cliff.  The leaders begin to follow that wether, and they go right over the cliff like the pore fools they are.  The herder fired and tried to drive ’em back, they tell me, an’ he an’ the dawg were shot at from the clump of willows by some one else who was there.  Three hundred sheep had gone over the cliff before Jim knew what was happening.  He rode like mad right through the herd to try and head ’em off; but you know what sheep is like—­ they’re like lost souls headin’ for damnation.  Nothing can stop ’em when they’re once started.  And Jim lost every head—­started for the shearing-pens a rich man—­rich for Jim—­an’ seen everything he had swept away before his eyes, his wife an’ children made paupers.  My son he come by and found him.  He said that Jim was sittin’ huddled up in a heap, his knees drawed up under his chin, starin’ straight up into the noonday sky, same as if he was askin’ God how He could be so cruel.  His dead dawg, that they had shot, was by the side of him.  The herder that was with Jim had taken the one that was shot into Watson’s, so when my son found Jim he was alone, sittin’ on the edge of the cliff with his dead dawg, an’ the sky about was black with buzzards; an’ Jim he just sat an’ stared up at ’em, and when my son spoke to him he never answered any more than a dead man.  He shuck him by the arm, but Jim just sat there, watchin’ the sun, the buzzards, and the dead sheep.”