And now, so much later, you shamble behind the wife, knees aching, the sun like the sun of the desert on your shoulder, no stink of sheep about you now, no creak from saddle or harness, no panting from eager dogs. You have your old man’s mules—a pair of canes, you have a bucket of lambsquarters for the evening meal, and you have ranks of witless lambs still bleating in your mind.
