200 ACROSS MONGOLIAN PLAINS 



wrong; if the bullet had found the neck he would have 

 dropped like lead. 



Never in all my years of hunting have I had a feeling 

 of such intense surprise and self-disgust. I had been 

 certain of the shot and it was impossible to believe that 

 I had missed. A lump rose in my throat and I sat with 

 my head resting on my hands in the uttermost depths of 

 dejection. 



And then the impossible happened! Why it hap- 

 pened, I shall never know. A kind Providence must 

 have directed the actions of the sheep, for, as I raised my 

 eyes, I saw again that enormous head and neck appear 

 from behind a rock a hundred yards away; just that 

 head with its circlet of massive horns and the neck — 

 nothing more. Almost in a daze I lifted my rifle, saw 

 the little ivory bead of the front sight center on that 

 gray neck, and touched the trigger. A thousand echoes 

 crashed back upon us. There was a clatter of stones, a 

 confused vision of a ponderous bulk heaving up and 

 back — and all was still. But it was enough for me; 

 there could be no mistake this time. The ram was 

 mine. 



The sudden transition from utter dejection to the 

 greatest triumph of a sportsman's life set me wild with 

 joy, I yelled and pounded the old Mongol on the back 

 until he begged for mercy; then I whirled him about in 

 a war dance on the summit of the ridge. I wanted to 

 leap down the rocks where the sheep had disappeared 

 but the hunter held my arm. For ten minutes we sat 

 there waiting to make sure that the ram would not dash 



