There were many of these long silences during those days on the hills and to his surprise Donald had come to enjoy them. At first he had looked forward eagerly to the coming of the camp-tender, who made his rounds three times a week. Not only did this Mexican bring fresh-baked bread, cold meat, and condensed milk to add to the campers' stock of salt pork, lentils, and coffee, but he brought messages from the outside world; gossip from the other herders; and now and then a letter from Donald's father. These visits were as exciting as to meet an ocean liner at sea. Gradually, however, Donald looked forward less and less to seeing the tiny Mexican burros with their loaded paniers wend their way up the hillsides. He grew into the shepherd life until like Sandy he found himself courting the sense of isolation and almost resenting the intrusion of the camp-tender.
He could now understand why the herders who had lived on the range for years were such a silent lot of men. When his father and he had first arrived at Crescent Ranch the shepherds had had so little to say that Donald, who was a sensitive lad, had felt sure that the men did not like to have them come. Later, however, he had found the herders kindly despite their taciturn manner. It was not ill-will but habitual silence.
"What a lot of things people say that they don't need to, Sandy," he observed to the Scotchman one day.
"So you have come to that way of thinking, have you? We'll make a shepherd of you yet! Well, well, it is true enough. Folks chatter and chatter and what does it amount to? Many's the time they wish afterward they had held their tongues. But it is all as we're made. Some drop into being contented on the range; others cannot bear the stillness. I was ever happy alone in the open; but my brother Douglas was uneasy as a colt."
"I didn't know you had a brother, Sandy!" exclaimed Donald, in surprise.
"Aye, a little lad, five years younger than myself."
"What became of him--that's a question that I wish I could answer! He came to Crescent Ranch years ago with my father and me and was about the place for a long time. But he was all for the city. He hated the quiet of the hills. He wanted to be seeing people and to be around in the rush of things, and he begged my father to let him go to some big place and find a job. My father was ever a strict man and he would have none of the youngster's going off by himself. There came a day, though, when the lad was so sore and unhappy that my father bid him set off for the East. There was no other way to satisfy the boy. But it was a sad time for my father--and for me, too."