After Bighorn 31 



pressed itself upon me, for the time had come 

 for action. Full of anticipation, my heart 

 beating with over-exertion, a hand unsteady 

 for the final effort, I elevated the Lyman 

 sights, taking into consideration the distance 

 and allowing for the rare atmosphere which 

 tends to deceive one in calculating the distance, 

 glanced along the barrel of my .30-30, pulled 

 the trigger, looked, and saw the shale fly in all 

 directions just over his back. An exclamation 

 followed more forcible than elegant and my 

 noble ram was speeding down the mountain- 

 side at the rate of a mile a minute (more or 

 less) , covering 20 to 30 feet at a jump, running 

 at an angle of 45° towards me. When he 

 reached a point about 70 yards away and was 

 just disappearing over a rocky ridge, again 

 the .30-30 flashed and immediately a death-like 

 stillness pervaded the canyon, as the report 

 echoed and re-echoed in the distant crags. 

 Not knowing the result of the second shot, I 

 ran over the slight elevation in order to get 

 another shot before he could reach the summi|J|# 

 of the cliff, but nowhere could he be seen. I IP 

 then took heart and began to climb to the 



