Yet it could endure but a moment more. Even now the great ram had begun to grow suspicious. The firelight cast a faint red glamor, and Argali eyed it with suspicion. There were unfamiliar smells in the air too: one that remotely suggested Cry-in-the-night and the other that he had experienced when Bill Elkins had come to drive back his ewes. He turned silently, starting to slip away.
But at that instant Spot—the yearling ram that had led the domestic flock—leaped forward as a meteor leaps in the sky. He knew this breed that had come down from the fastnesses. They were of his lost land, and even now they were turning back to the crags of which he had dreamed. Hugh saw the motion, gasped once in the depths of wonder, and sprang to his feet. The dog barked and raced about the flank of the flock.
Hugh cried out. Swept with wonder and tingling in every nerve, he couldn't suppress the utterance. He saw old Argali pause with lowered horns as Spot raced toward him. His little flock stood statuesque for a single instant, as if they were waiting for him to join them. These were Spot's people: in the moonlight there was no difference between them and the other bighorn yearlings. Hugh understood now why Spot had differed from the domestic sheep. And Shep raced—jealous as ever for the integrity of the flock—to cut off Spot's flight.
