We hunted up-wind, keeping out of sight, using crags and boulders for shelter. When we came to a precipitous part of the mountain, we went slowly and carefully, to keep from making a false step and breaking our necks. We scrambled along the narrow ledges and rock-shelves, clinging to cold buttresses and to scant projections of the cliffs, careful not to start a loose stone or any crumbling shale. At last we came to an overhanging crest. We crawled to the edge and peeped over the cliff. Below, on a narrow ledge, stood a ewe sheep. She was at the top of a precipice, with a view of the entire mountain side. By this time the sun was low in the sky. Now was our only chance for meat; we had to get down the cliffs, while there was still light to see the way. Yellow Bird fired and struck the sheep behind the shoulder. She jumped to a lower shelf, where my bullet finished her. The carcass fell over the precipice and down the barefaced cliffs; the hollow reverberations of its fall echoed from the mountain walls. It struck slide-rock and rolled over and over, going at terrible speed, until it landed against a big boulder far down the mountain—our fate if we should slip or make a false step. Then we made our way back along the treacherous ledges and rock-shelves, where nerve and sure-footedness were necessary for every step. When we came to loose shale, we traveled fearlessly with long slides, down to the carcass of the sheep, near timber-line. By the time we stripped off the hide and had the meat ready, night was beginning to settle over the surrounding mountains. Then, in the dark forest Yellow Bird was afraid. He sang chants to keep off ghosts and evil things, until we came to our horses on the floor of the valley. After the moon rose, the dark places were filled with its magic light, and the open parks and lakes were like fairyland. At camp the Indians gathered around the fire to roast sheep meat, and to hear about our hunt. It was the night of full moon, without a cloud in the sky. Our fire was in a meadow, near the edge of the forest, where its red glow lighted up the big trees. Like true children of nature, my companions acted as they felt. Sometimes they talked; and sometimes there was silence for a while. In the distance an owl hooted. It came nearer and nearer, until its call sounded from the top of a tree near by. “Listen!” said Nitana. “He calls his own name—ears-far-apart, ears-far-apart, ears-far-apart (ka-ka-not-stoki, horned owl). One can tell the different members of an owl family by their voices—the deep call of the father, the higher one of the mother and the thin ones of the children.” After another silence the owl hooted again. My Indian sister shuddered: “Perhaps it is a ghost,” said she. “Some owls are the unhappy spirits of people long dead.”