wholly plain that he has never followed the tracks of a pack of strange wolves in a new land. By knowing all the trails, the bighorn were able to avoid the traps that Broken Fang so laboriously set. More than once, after a weary half-day's wait, he would find to his chagrin that the sure-footed sheep had been watching him—chuckling no doubt among themselves—from a nearby promontory. They knew how to see him before he saw them, and in a fair chase he was simply out of the running. If his luck didn't change soon, it seemed very likely that the buzzards would have a large heap of poorly upholstered bones to pick clean.
But to-night—as September days rolled to their mellow end—he had fresh hopes. For the wind had come and brought him good news. The flock was feeding on a little grass slope just in front.
Broken Fang felt that it was almost his last chance, and he intended to make the most of it. But desperate as he was, he kept his hunting cunning. This would indicate that certain of the beasts have even better nerve control than their superiors, human beings,—for a starving man would have been unlikely to go about his hunting with the same stealth and caution. He crept slowly forward, his nerves singing wild melodies within him. And stealing from above, he soon caught sight of the flock.
Some of them were feeding; Argali, Spot, and
