ON THE SHEEP RANGES 41 



was not difficult, though caution was required not to make 

 a noise while climbing over the broken rock. 



Going slowly to keep my breath, I came near the top, 

 where the surface rose more gradually to form the point 

 of the peak, when suddenly the heads and horns of a ram 

 appeared on the sky-line to the right, not twenty feet 

 away. He looked at me for a moment and disappeared 

 with a spring. Hastening to the point I saw a fine ram 

 running ahead of three smaller ones directly up the peak. 

 He stopped only a few feet below the summit. Seating 

 myself, I aimed quickly and fired. He dropped, rolled a 

 few yards, and was caught in the broken rock. The 

 others disappeared around the slope beyond. Running 

 forward over the loose rock on the steep incline, I caught 

 him by the horns and held him while he was kicking in 

 death struggles, to prevent him from rolling down. The 

 bullet had passed through his foreshoulders at the base 

 of the neck. He was a very fat ram of seven or eight 

 years, with shapely, spreading horns. His tail was black, 

 his body pure white, though the short new pelage was 

 stained brownish from the ferruginous rock. 



My exultation at this first success in accomplishing 

 the purpose of my trip was complete. For some time I 

 sat looking at the wonderful landscape about and below 

 me. On every side stretched the mountain ranges until 

 the vision was lost in a sea of tumbled peaks, all dotted 

 and patched with the glistening snow; below were basins 

 and wild, green valleys clothed with green and bluish 

 timber a vast, silent, wilderness reaching on the east 

 to the Mackenzie River, on the west to the Yukon. 



