Snake Eyes (9781101552469) Read Online Free Page B

difference. Sheep and cattle eat the same grass and do not fight over territory. Only cattlemen and sheepmen fight over the grasslands.”
    â€œThat’s something to think about,” Brad said.
    â€œYou do not believe me,” Mike said.
    â€œI believe that’s what you think. I may have to see it for myself.”
    â€œYou will see,” Mike promised.
    The two men spoke but little the rest of the way to LaPorte. They waited on the side of the road when a stage rumbled past from Cheyenne or Fort Collins. They touched their hat brims when they encountered a farmer or a rancher passing them with wagons, full or empty, and they acknowledged strangers heading for Denver. None passed them heading north, however.
    Brad was impressed with Mike’s pony, Sparrow, who kept up with Ginger and did not seem to tire. They ate as they rode and did not make camp at night but continued on in the darkness along the moonlit road, hearing the chromatic calls of coyotes and watching the bullbats gobble up flying insects after dusk.
    Just as Mike had said, there was a sheepman waiting for them in LaPorte. Mike introduced Brad to Belen Agapio.
    â€œYou can call me Bill,” Agapio said as the two men shook hands.
    â€œAll right, Bill.”
    Then Bill turned to Mike.
    â€œThe herds should be coming into the valleys by now,” he said. “I saw them leave Cheyenne a week ago.”
    â€œGood,” Mike said. “I am anxious to see Arramospe.”
    As the three men crossed the South Platte and headed up Poudre Canyon, Mike explained that Joe Arramospe was a kind of foreman. He managed all the herders and the various flocks that would spend the summer getting fat feeding on mountain grass.
    â€œThere will be lambs, soon,” he said, “and they will grow strong in the mountains and be ready to make the trip back to Cheyenne with their mothers.”
    â€œWhen will you shear the sheep?” Mike asked.
    â€œThey have all been sheared. They will grow their wool back before the trees shed their leaves.”
    â€œSo they are coming into the high country naked,” Brad said.
    â€œAs jaybirds,” Mike said, with a laugh.
    They veered away from the Cache la Poudre after a day and a half of climbing, and in another day they rode into a wide valley nestled among the jagged, snow-capped peaks of the Rockies. Sheep flowed like white water over the hillocks and hillsides. At the far end, Brad saw a number of log cabins. They looked small and cramped and too low for him to stand up in once he was inside. Men were hauling downed pines to a new building site while others barked and notched the logs for a new dwelling.
    Joe Arramospe rode out to greet them, his face bathed in sweat. He and Mike spoke to each other in the Basque language before Mike introduced the two men. Joe seemed angry, and while he and Mike spoke, his eyes clenched into tiny fists and tears leaked through the lids and streamed down his face.
    Joe had a moon face, darkened from the sun, and his brown eyes rolled around in their sockets like errant marbles as he spoke and gesticulated wildly with his arms and hands.
    Mike’s and Bill’s faces were somber, their expressions drawn taut with an inward sadness.
    Brad did not understand one word that Arramospe was saying. When he was finished speaking, Mike turned to Brad.
    â€œWe will follow Joe to another valley just beyond this one. He has something to show us.”
    â€œSomething bad, I gather,” Brad said.
    â€œVery bad, very, very bad.”
    That was all Mike said as he, Bill, and Brad followed Joe Arramospe to a narrow trail through the timber. Brad noticed that each of them had the sawed-off shotguns slung to their saddles and carried rifles, as well. These were rugged men, he decided, not at all what he imagined sheepherders should look like. Joe was round-shouldered, but his arms were muscled and his wrists thick, his hands the hands of a working