The Story of Wool. Sara Ware Bassett

we had perfect confidence in Old Angus, the manager. After your grandfather died, Uncle Harold and I had all we could do to attend to the business here. It grew so rapidly that it was about as much as two young fellows like ourselves could handle. We always meant to go out—one of us—but we never did. Then our faithful Scotchman died. We felt lost, I can tell you! He had had all the management of Crescent for twenty years and was one of the finest men in the world. He might have lived until now, perhaps, had he not been caught on the range in a blizzard while struggling to get a flock of sheep out of the storm and thereby lost his life."

      Mr. Clark paused a moment.

      "After him came Johnson. He has done his work well, so far as we know; but now he is out of the running too and we shall have to get some one else."

      "Whom are you going to get?"

      "I haven't the most remote idea. You see, Don, I know next to nothing about managing a ranch. I stay here in Boston and simply sell wool. This end of the business I know thoroughly, but the other end is Greek to me."

      Donald laughed. He was just beginning Greek.

      "I am glad you don't know about a ranch, father," he exclaimed.

      "Why?"

      "Oh, because you seem to know almost everything else, and it is fun to find something you don't know."

      There was admiration in the boy's words.

      His father shook his head and there was a shadow of sadness in his smile as he replied:

      "I know very little, Donald boy. The older I grow the less I know, too. You will feel that way when you are my age. Now here is a chance for us to learn something together. Let's go to Idaho and find out all we can about sheep-raising."

      Within the next few days the plans for the journey were completed.

      As one article after another was purchased and packed the trip unfolded into a most alluring pilgrimage. They must take their riding togs, for Uncle Harold reminded them that they would probably be in the saddle much of the time; their camping kit must go also; above all they must carry good revolvers and rifles. Donald's heart beat high. He and his father had always ridden a great deal together; it was their favorite sport. Now they were to have whole days of it. And added to this pleasure was the crowning glory of both a rifle and a revolver!

      All this fairy-land of the future had come about through Sandy McCulloch!

      Who was this wonderful Sandy? And why had he telegraphed?

      Sandy McCulloch! The very name breathed a charm. Donald repeated it to himself constantly. He dreamed dreams and wove adventures about this mysterious Scotchman. He knew he should like Sandy. Who could help it? His name was enough.

      In the meantime the days of preparation flew by. Donald's spring examinations were passed with honors—a fact which his father declared proved that he had taken his work in earnest and that he deserved an outing. Mr. Clark laughingly ventured the hope that he should be able to leave his business affairs in equally good condition.

      "You have set quite a pace for me, Don! I am not sure whether I can take honors at the office or not. I have done the best I could, however, to put things into Uncle Harold's hands so to cause him as little trouble as possible."

      Donald tried not to become impatient while these arrangements were being made.

      At last dawned that clear April morning when the East was left behind and the journey to the West—that unknown land—was begun. Donald had never been West. The vastness of the country, the newness of the scenery surprised and delighted him. Geography had never seemed so real before. No longer were the various states pink, green, or purple splotches on the map; they were real living places with people, sunshine, and fresh air.

      "I had no idea America was so big!" he gasped to his father.

      "It's the finest country in the world, Don! Be proud and thankful that you are an American. No other land does so much for her people. Be humble, too. Never let a chance go by to do your part in helping the country that does so much for you."

      They were standing in the glassed-in rear of the train, and as Mr. Clark spoke he pointed to vast tracts of forest land that sped past them.

      "I am afraid I can't do anything for a great country like this, father," said Donald, a little quiver in his voice.

      "There is one thing we can all do—that is be good citizens. Every law we have was made for the good of our people. In so far as you keep these laws you will be aiding in building up a more perfect America. Bear your share in that work—do not be a hindrance, Don."

      "I'll try, father," was the boy's grave reply.

      To help in the progress of such a land as this! More than once Donald thought of his father's words as the train threaded its way along the banks of mighty rivers, rolled through great woodlands, or skirted cities which throbbed with the life of mighty industries.

      And all this vast-reaching land was his country—his!

      On every hand there were wonders!

      As the express thundered along he poured out question after question.

      Why did people go way to Idaho to raise sheep? Why didn't his father raise his sheep in the East? Certainly there was room enough, plenty of room, that was much nearer than Idaho. How did sheep get into the mountains of Idaho anyway?

      Mr. Clark ducked his head under the torrent of queries.

      "You will drown me with questions!" he exclaimed laughing. "Well, I shall do my best to answer you. New Mexico was the first sheep center in our country. Herds were originally brought from Spain, and these flocks worked their way up from Mexico through New Mexico and California; here the hills supplied the coolness necessary to animals with such thick coats, and furnished them at the same time with plentiful grass for food. During the day the herds grazed, and at night they were driven into corrals of cedar built by the shepherds. These sheep were mostly Merinos, a variety raised in Spain. Afterward, in 1853, a man named William W. Hollister brought three hundred ewes across our continent to the West. Think what a journey it must have been!"

      "Wasn't the railroad built?"

      "No. Neither were there any bridges. There were rivers to swim and mountains to climb; furthermore there was many a search for water-holes, because Mr. Hollister was not well enough acquainted with the country to know where to find water for himself and the herd."

      "I should not think a sheep would have lived through such a journey!" cried Donald.

      "Many of them did, however," answered his father, "and that is how our western sheep-raising industry began. Now it is one of the great occupations of our land, and soon you and I are to know more about it."

      "And about Sandy McCulloch, too, I hope," put in the boy.

      "I hope so; only remember—not a word of that telegram to any one at the ranch. We shall get into Glen City this noon if our train is on time and we must trust to luck in getting to Crescent Ranch. It is fifteen miles from the station, up in the foot-hills of the Rockies."

      "The—the—you don't mean the Rocky Mountains!" gasped Donald, his eyes very wide open.

      "Certainly. Have you forgotten your geography?"

      "Of course I know that a spur of the Rocky Mountains does run diagonally across Idaho; but somehow I never thought of really being in the Rocky Mountains!"

      Mr. Clark enjoyed the outburst.

      "To be where there are bears and bob-cats and——"

      "Maybe, after all, you would rather have stayed at home and finished out your school year."

      "I rather guess not!" was the lad's emphatic reply.

      So impatient was he to see the marvels of this magic land that the last few hours of the journey seemed unending.

      But