Much that Annersley had taught Pete was undone in the lazy, listless life of the sheep-camp.  There was a certain slow progressiveness about it, however, that saved it from absolute monotony.  Each day the sheep grazed out, the distance being automatically adjusted by the coming of night, when they were bunched and slowly drifted back to the bedding-ground.  A day or two—­depending on the grazing—­and they were bedded in a new place as the herder worked toward the low country followed by a recurrent crispness in the air that presaged the coming of winter in the hills.  Pete soon realized that, despite their seeming independence, sheep-men were slaves of the seasons.  They “followed the grass” and fled from cold weather and snow.  At times, if the winter was severe in the lower levels, they even had to winter-feed to save the band.  Lambs became tired or sick—­unable to follow the ewes—­and Pete often found some lone lamb hiding beneath a clump of brush where it would have perished had he not carried it on to the flock and watched it until it grew stronger.  He learned that sheep were gregarious—­that a sheep left alone on the mesa, no matter how strong, through sheer loneliness would cease to eat and slowly starve to death.  Used to horses, Pete looked upon sheep with contempt.  They had neither individual nor collective intelligence.  Let them once become frightened and if not immediately headed off by the dogs, they would stampede over the brink of an arroyo and trample each other to death.  This all but happened once when Montoya was buying provisions in town and Pete was in charge of the band.  The camp was below the rim of a canon.  The sheep were scattered over a mile or so of mesa, grazing contentedly.  The dogs, out-posted on either side of the flock, were resting, but alert.  To the left, some distance from the sheep, was the canon-rim and a trail, gatewayed by two huge boulders, man-high, with about enough space between them for a burro to pass.  A horse could hardly have squeezed through.  Each night the sheep were headed for this pass and worked through, one at a time, stringing down the trail below which was steep and sandy.  At the canon bottom was water and across the shallows were the bedding-grounds and the camp.  Pete, drowsing in the sun, occasionally glanced up at the flock.  He saw no need for standing up, as Montoya always did when out with the band.  The sheep were all right—­and the day was hot.  Presently Pete became interested in a mighty battle between a colony of red ants which seemed to be attacking a colony of big black ants that had in some way infringed on some international agreement, or overstepped the color-line.  Pete picked up a twig and hastily scraped up a sand barricade, to protect the red ants, who, despite their valor, seemed to be getting the worst of it.  Black ants scurried to the top of the barricade to be grappled by the tiny red ants, who fought valiantly.  Pete saw a red ant meet