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On the eighth afternoon we were in the "blind" at three o'clock as usual. We had tied a goat to a tree nearby and her two kids were but a few feet away. The grass-filled lair lay shimmering in the breathless heat, silent save for the echoes of the bleating goats.
They passed a bunch of feeding Flying U cattle, and flat-ribbed, bandy-legged calves galloped in brief panic to their mothers and from the sanctuary of grass-filled paunches watched the riders with wide, inquisitive eyes. "We ought to be starting out, by now," Weary observed a bit gloomily to Andy and Pink, who rode upon either side of him.
It was a sore trial to let them go, but the old hunter had his hand upon my arm and shook his head. Passing the summit of the hill, we sat down for a look around. Before us, nearly a mile away, three shallow, grass-filled valleys dropped steeply from the rolling meadowland. Almost instantly through my binoculars caught the moving forms of three sheep in the bottom of the central draw.
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