He did not graze easily, as did most of his followers. He skipped about across the whole front of the flock, now perching upon some lofty crag, now scampering up a narrow trail where the flock could scarcely follow. But in the hot, still late afternoon, as the sheep were beginning to stir after a long rest in the forest shade, Spot gave him even further cause to wonder. To Hugh, it seemed the hottest hour of the day. His human sense, however, misled him: in reality, the highest point had been reached, and the cool winds from off the snow fields were on their way to bring relief. The sheep were still resting in a compact band: Spot, at the extreme front rank of the flock, had climbed upon a little rocky eminence on the hillside. It was such a promontory as is to be seen often in the high Rockies, an outcropping of the rocky skeleton of the hill emerging—like the end of a broken bone through the flesh—from the brown earth of the hillside. It was such a place as the wolf chooses for her lair, and the poison people—the gray speckled rattlesnakes whose bite is death—like to stretch out upon through the long, still afternoons. Because it overlooked the whole glen and was at the edge of the stony hillside where he had been doomed to live, Running Feet, the coyote, found it a convenient place to look for game. Why Spot had chosen such a place for his rest Hugh could not guess. It was not shaded and comfortable like the glen beneath. Nor did he lie down like the ewes below him, but stood alert, head up, nostrils open to receive any message that the wind might bring. Hugh found himself watching him with fascinated interest. It seemed to him that the animal was on guard over the flock, even as he himself and the dog,—a watchful sentinel for any danger that might threaten them. If it were true, he had a right to his wonder. The domestic animals do not ordinarily appoint one of their number as a sentinel. They have depended on the protection of men for so many generations that this habit has died from the breeds. The wild creatures, however, still retain it. If indeed the ram should detect danger for the flock, there was no conceivable refuge for them, so there could have been no conscious intelligence behind the act. It was obviously a long-remembered instinct. Any of the fleet-footed hunters of the wild could overtake them, and the slaying was easy even for a little lynx, biting sure and true. No one knew this fact any better than Running Feet, the coyote, emerging from the brushy thickets of the hillside in late afternoon. His second name was Coward—cowardice was part of the curse that Manitou had put upon him—but even a seasonal fawn would be brave enough to attack a sheep. It might be, approaching in the shelter of the thickets, he could get close enough to the flock to steal a lamb or ewe from its flanks.