THE MESA TRAIL 



works a circuit up from the Ceriso to Red 

 Butte and around by way of Salt Flats, 

 passes year by year on the mesa trail, 

 his thick hairy chest thrown open to all 

 weathers, twirling his long staff, and deal- 

 ing brotherly with his dogs, who are pos- 

 sibly as intelligent, certainly handsomer. 



A flock s journey is seven miles, ten if 

 pasture fails, in a windless blur of dust, 

 feeding as it goes, and resting at noons. 

 Such hours Pete weaves a little screen of 

 twigs between his head and the sun — the 

 rest of him is as impervious as one of his 

 own sheep — and sleeps while his dogs 

 have the flocks upon their consciences. At 

 night, wherever he may be, there Pete 

 camps, and fortunate the trail-weary trav- 

 eler who falls in with him. When the 

 fire kindles and savory meat seethes in the 

 pot, when there is a drowsy blether from 

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