THE STORY OF A RAM 61 



We had to leave him, it was too late, but the 

 next morning we were on his trail. 



Bitterly cold it was struggling up the hill where 

 we had seen him. My beard and moustache were 

 covered with little icicles, and at the top I could 

 hardly grip the rifle. A sudden snowstorm nearly 

 blinded us, and the strong north wind choked the 

 breath down our throats. We could dimly see the 

 tracks ahead and fought our way on. 



Half-an-hour later, through the white elusive 

 flakes which fell softly about us, something moved. 

 Cautiously we advanced, and a ram and three ewes 

 sprang from behind a fir. For a moment I was 

 tempted to fire, and only for a moment. It was not 

 my ram, but a young beast, his horns scarcely as large 

 as the one I had killed a fortnight before. So we had 

 all our long climb up the hill again. The snow ceased 

 to fall, the sun came out, and we were, by the time we 

 reached the top, both dripping with perspiration. 

 There we came on our friend's tracks again, and saw 

 where, daunted by the savage fury of the wind, he 

 had led his band back down the hillside. 



All day we followed them, and then, late in the 

 afternoon, came upon their creators. 



They fed, half a mile below us, scraping at the 

 snow with their fore-feet and partially hidden by a 

 thicket of willows. Carefully and silently we crept 

 down the hill and took up our position on a flat snow- 

 covered rock overhung by a blasted pine. The 

 scattered outposts of the willow clump peered fifty 



