At St. Mary's 



out for fish or small game. Hardeman 

 and I had decided at the outset to kill a 

 Rocky Mountain sheep, — a " big horn;" 

 and not only had we so decided, but we 

 had so asserted. We might condescend to 

 catch a few trout or to shoot a few grouse 

 in our spare moments, — pour passer le 

 temps, — but the business of our life while 

 in these mountains would be mutton — 

 wild mutton. 



The members of our party were nice 

 gentlemen, and treated our youthful vapor- 

 ings with a serious attention that pleased 

 us. Even our guide, a thirteen-year resi- 

 dent of this locality, did not smile ; but 

 contented himself with saying that he had 

 known " a few gentlemen to miss them 

 sheep at thirty yards the first time they got 

 a shot at them," but that he guessed " these 

 West Point boys knew how to shoot a gun, 

 and how to keep their nerve when in sight 

 of big game." 



We came to know more about that 

 guide and " nerve " and things later on. 



But it did seem ridiculous to hear of a 

 man's getting a shot at a mark the size of 

 a sheep, and missing it at fifty yards. The 

 wonder was how he could miss at all — 

 where his bullet could go and not hit — 

 at that range. We were not troubled. 

 268 



