Once she rested for a few minutes, flinging herself down into the sand at
length, her head thrown back from the full brown throat so that she could
gaze into the unstained sky of blue. Presently the claims of this planet
made themselves heard, for she, too, was elemental and a creature of
instinct. The earth was awake and palpitating with life, the low,
indefatigable life of creeping things and vegetation persisting even in
this waste of rock and sand.
But she could not rest long, for Diablo Cañon must be reached before dark.
The sheep would be very thirsty by the time they arrived, and she could
not risk letting them tear down the precipitous edge among the sharp rocks
in the dark. Already over the sand stretches a peculiar liquid glow was
flooding, so that the whole desert seemed afire. The burning sun had
slipped behind a saddle of the purple peaks, leaving a brilliant horizon
of many mingled shades.
It was as she came forward to the cañon's edge in this luminous dusk that
Melissy became aware of a distant figure on horseback, silhouetted for a
moment against the skyline. One glance was all she got of it, for she was
very busy with the sheep, working them leisurely toward the black chasm
that seemed to yawn for them. High rock walls girt the cañon, gigantic and
bottomless in the gloom. A dizzy trail zigzagged back and forth to the
pool below, and along this she and the collie skilfully sent the eager,
thirsty animals.
The mass of the sheep were still huddled on the edge of the ravine when
there came the thud of horses' hoofs and the crack of revolvers,
accompanied by hoarse, triumphant yells and cries. Melissy knew instantly
what it was--the attack of cattlemen upon her defenseless flock. They had
waited until the sheep were on the edge of the precipice, and now they
were going to drive the poor creatures down upon the rocks two hundred
feet below. Her heart leaped to her throat, but scarce more quickly than
she upon a huge boulder bordering the trail.
"Back! Keep back!" she heard herself crying, and even as she spoke a
bullet whistled through the rim of her felt hat.
Standing there boldly, unconscious of danger, the wind draped and defined
the long lines of her figure like those of the Winged Victory.
The foremost rider galloped past, waving his sombrero and shooting into
the frightened mass in front of him. Within a dozen feet of her he turned
his revolver upon the girl, then, with an oath of recognition, dragged his
pony back upon its haunches. Another horse slithered into it, and a
third.