AMONG THE HIGH HILLS, 125 



cocked and at the ready, expecting to see the 

 rams by the pool. However, they had gone, 

 and the muddy water was settling in their deep 

 hoof marks. Running on I looked over the 

 edge of the cut bank and saw them slowly 

 quartering up the hillside, cropping the sparse 

 tufts of coarse grass. I whistled, and as they 

 stood at gaze I put a bullet into the biggest, a 

 little too far aft of the shoulder, but ranging 

 forward. He raced after the others, but soon 

 fell behind, and turned off on his own line, at 

 a walk, with dropping head. As he bled 

 freely I followed his tracks, found him, very 

 sick, in a washout a quarter of a mile beyond, 

 and finished him with another shot. After 

 dressing him, and cutting off the saddle and 

 hams, as well as the head, I walked back to 

 camp, breakfasted, and rode Manitou to where 

 the sheep lay. Packing it securely behind 

 the saddle, and shifting the blanket roll to in 

 front of the saddle-horn, I led the horse until 

 we were clear of the Bad Lands ; then 

 mounted him, and was back at the ranch soon 

 after midday. The mutton of a fat young 

 mountain ram, at this season of the year, is 

 delicious. 



Such quick success is rare in hunting 

 sheep. Generally each head has cost me sev- 

 eral days of hard, faithful work ; and more 

 than once I have hunted over a week without 

 any reward whatsoever. But the quarry is so 

 noble that the ultimate triumph sure to 

 come, if the hunter will but persevere long 

 enough atones for all previous toil and 

 failure. 



Once a lucky stalk and shot at a bighorn 



