Krag, the Kootenay Ram 



worn now, that once had won his Lamb-days' 

 fight. There were the years of robust growth, 

 each long in measure of that growth. Here 

 was that year of sickness, there the splinter 

 on the fifth year's ring, which notched his 

 first love-fight. The points had now come 

 round, and on them, could we but have seen, 

 were the lives of many Gray Wolves that had 

 sought his life. And so the rings read on, the 

 living record of a life whose very preciousness 

 had brought it to a sudden end. 



The golden chain across the web of white 

 was broken for its gold. 



Scotty walked slowly over, and gazed in 

 sullen silence, not at the dear-won horns, but 

 at the calm yellow eyes, unclosed, and yet 

 undimmed by death. Stone-cold was he. He 

 did not understand himself. He did not know 

 that this was the sudden drop after the long, 

 long slope up which he had been forcing him- 

 self for months. He sat down twenty yards 

 away, with his back to the horns. He put a 

 quid of tobacco in his mouth. But his mouth 

 was dry; he spat it out again. He did not 

 know what he himself felt. Words played but 



97 



