It was not by any conjuncture that I arrived at this conclusion. I was quite confident that the footsteps were not those of a _squaw_--all inexplicable as was the contrary hypothesis. I observed that they were very recent--of less than an hour's age. As I rose from regarding them, a new sign appeared on the same bed of sand--the footmarks of a wolf! No--I was deceived by resemblance. On nearer examination, they were not wolf-tracks I saw; but those of a dog, and evidently a large one. These were also fresh like the woman's tracks--made doubtless at the same time. The dog had accompanied the woman, or rather had been following her: since a little further on, where both were in the same line, his track was uppermost. There were two special reasons why this sign should astonish me: a _white_ woman in such a place, and _wearing moccasins_! But for the style of the _chaussure_, I might have fancied that the tracks were those of some one who had strayed from the caravan. I might have connected them with _her_--ever uppermost in my thoughts. But--no. Small though they were, they were yet too large for those _mignon_ feet, well-remembered. After all, I _might_ be mistaken? Some dusky maiden might have passed that way, followed by her dog? This hypothesis would have removed all mystery, had I yielded to it. I could not: it was contrary to my tracking experience. Even the dog was not Indian: the prints of his paws proclaimed him of a different race. My perplexity did not hinder me from quenching my thirst. The pain was paramount; and after assuaging it, I turned my eyes once more towards the cliff. The wild ram had not stirred from his place. The noble animal was still standing upon the summit of the rock. He had not even changed his attitude. In all likelihood, he was acting as the sentinel of a flock, that was browsing behind him. The sun was falling fair upon his body, and deepened the fern-red colour upon his flanks. I could note his full round eyes glistening under the golden beam. I was near enough to bring him down; and, should the rifle prove to have been properly loaded, I was likely to have for my breakfast the choicest viand of the mountain region of America. I had raised my piece, sighted the noble game, and was about to pull trigger, when, to my astonishment, the animal sprang off from the cliff; and, turning back downward, fell heavily into the gorge! When I saw him pitching outward from the rock, I fancied he was making one of those singular somersaults, frequently practised by the _ovis ammon_ in descending the ledges of a cliff. But no. Had the descent been a voluntary one, he would have come down upon his huge elastic horns, instead of falling as he had done, with the dull sodden sound of a lifeless body?