In the old days we used the .44 caliber, but nowadays, we
prefer nothing heavier than a .30 and many use a .35 caliber for deer."
Farrel drew a 6 millimeter Mannlicher carbine from the gun scabbard on
his saddle, dropped five shells into the magazine, looked at his sights
and thrust the weapon back into its receptacle. "I think I ought to
have some more life insurance," he murmured, complacently. "By the
way, Don Nicolas, about how many sheep have I attached?"
"Loustalot's foreman says nine thousand in round numbers."
"Where is the sheep camp?"
"Over yonder." Don Nicolas waved a careless hand toward the west. "I
saw their camp-fire last night."
"I'm going over to give them the rush."
"By all means, Miguel. If you run those Basques off the ranch I will
be able to return to town and leave my deputies in charge of these
sheep. Keep your eyes open, Miguel. _Adios, muchacho_!"
Farrel jogged away with Pablo at his heels. Half an hour later he had
located the sheep camp and ridden to it to accost the four bewhiskered
Basque shepherds who, surrounded by their dogs, sullenly watched his
approach.
"Who is the foreman?" Don Mike demanded in English as he rode.
"I am, you ---- ---- ----," one of the Basques replied,
briskly. "I don't have for ask who are you. I know."
"Mebbeso some day, you forget," Pablo cried. "I will give you
something for make you remember, pig.
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