"I take you," said the sheep-herder, "eef you breeng back dose sheep
dat are now starving up on de rocks of de canon of Baxstaire's."

The Mexican's eyes twinkled as the white man closed on the offer. The
gold in the bottle, ten or fifteen dollars, was a trifle, and yet
enough to send the hunter on the quest--enough to lure him into the
enterprise, and that was all that was needed. Pedro knew his man: get
him going and profit would count for nothing; having put his hand to
the plow Lan Kellyan would finish the furrow at any cost; he was
incapable of turning back. And again he took up the trail of Grizzly
Jack, his one-time "pard," now grown beyond his ken.

The hunter went straight to Baxter's canon and found the sheep
high-perched upon the rocks. By the entrance he found the remains of
two of them recently devoured, and about them the tracks of a
medium-sized Bear. He saw nothing of the pathway--the dead-line--made
by the Grizzly to keep the sheep prisoners till he should need them.
But the sheep were standing in stupid terror on various high places,
apparently willing to starve rather than come down. Lan dragged one
down; at once it climbed up again. He now realized the situation, so
made a small pen of chaparral outside the canon, and dragging the dull
creatures down one at a time, he carried them--except one--out of the
prison of death and into the pen. Next he made a hasty fence across
the canon's mouth, and turning the sheep out of the pen, he drove them
by slow stages toward the rest of the flock.

Only six or seven miles across country, but it was late night when Lan
arrived.