The time and effort expended in accomplishing the ascent to the other side made it clear that I had been greatly deceived in the distance, but I was happy to make any physical effort to secure a mountain sheep. The last quarter of a mile must be made with exceeding caution, because the quick ear of the Big Horn would catch any unusual sound. After more than an hour of vigorous but cautious climbing, an eligible point was reached, toward which my course had been directed, and with rifle ready to fire on the first sight of the game, my head was slowly raised above a projecting rock in confidence that the game had not ascended the mountain. There it was in full view, not more than a hundred yards distant. It certainly had horns, but the sight of half a dozen ordinary sheep huddled together in the background revealed to my obtuse consciousness the fact that my game was a ram, which was guarding a little flock of domestic sheep similar to those with which we are all familiar. Shall victory be wrested from defeat? Our boys needed meat, and I could tumble a sheep's carcass down the mountain side. Conflicting emotions throbbed within my breast, until approaching the sheep I was confronted by a tough-looking mountaineer, after which I cared less for mutton. "What are ye doin' up here?" was his interrogatory. "Oh, I'm out a hunting." "What kind of game are ye after?" he asked. "Oh, any nice game that needs a good shot." I noticed that the stranger had a revolver at his side, and in a few moments another slouched-hat individual emerged from a little hut in a side ravine. "What kind of a rifle is that you've got?" "It's a Henry." "I've hear'n of one but never seen one before. Lemme see it," said the mountaineer. He took the gun from me and carefully looked it over. "Where are you from, anyhow?" he asked, without taking his eyes from the gun. I gave the name of the town without any additional facts. Continuing, he said, "I was there once. I lived up in Bark Woods awhile. Do you know where Pumpkin Holler is, just beyond Hebron?" "Yes." "Did you ever know Jim Roach, who hauled logs to Joe Powers' saw mill at Hebron?" "The holler is several miles from my town, but I think I have heard the name," I replied. "Didn't you ever hear of Jim Roach's nephew Ben?" he asked. "Maybe I have," was the answer. "Well!" said the mountaineer, "I'm him." CHAPTER XXVIII SOME EPISODES IN STOCK HUNTING