“You hev to be mighty still around them critters,” said Uncle Dave; “but I reckon you’ve seen enough; let’s go back and hev a bite to eat.” “All right,” said Fred, and they retraced their steps to the old horse and dog. Here they untied their lunch from the saddle and sat down to eat and talk about the habits of the beaver. “I b’lieve we’d better try another trail home,” said Uncle Dave; “mebbe we kin strike some big game if we rise a bit over this ridge to the south and strike down into the other canyon thar.” “You’re chief,” said Fred. They followed up the creek for a way, rising gradually up a ridge; then gaining the summit, they began to trail down between two ledges into the main canyon. They were just emerging from this side gorge when the old man suddenly stopped, and giving a warning gesture to Fred, reached for his rifle, which hung in its leathern scabbard under the flap of his saddle. Fred looked up quickly to see another crag-framed picture thrilled with wild life. It was a band of mountain sheep filing calmly and unsuspectingly along the rocky trail just below. A stately ram, with great, gracefully curved horns led the march. Following him came a band of about fifteen ewes, younger bucks, and lambs. They stepped springily in single file behind their proud captain. The old mountaineer stood tense till the leader came within about two hundred yards of him. Then, just as the ram neared a big rock by the trail, he aimed, fired, and missed. Like a steel spring suddenly released, the ram leaped and landed squarely atop the big rock. And there he stood above the trail, his proud head turning nervously from side to side while he looked with wild eyes to sight the cause of his alarm. The rest of the band, terror-stricken, bounded forward to gather about the rock whereon their leader stood, and there they waited tremblingly for the signal to strike for a safer place. The old trapper in a flash had thrown another cartridge into his rifle. Again he raised--this time with the poise of a statue, and leveled at the kingly target. A sharp “ping” cut the still air. The proud ram, mortally hurt, sank and tumbled from the rock to the trail, while the leaderless band broke, scattered, and fled. The mountaineer did not fire again, though he might have dropped several before they bounded out of gunshot. Fred, unable to restrain himself, threw his hat in the air and giving a shout that waked the echoes, bounded past the old man down to the dying ram, reaching it just as the life-light faded from his great pleading eyes. That sight dulled the joy of the kill for Fred, and his heart echoed Uncle Dave’s quiet words. “It’s hard to do it, boy, hard and cruel. In all these years’ trapping and killing, I have never found it easy to snuff out the life of God’s creatures. Wall, they’ll soon get another leader, and there won’t be any lambs a-bleatin’ for him. Fine sheep, ain’t he?”