_argali_ were sleeping. On the way I was in a fever of indecision.
Ought I to have let that ram go? He was just what we wanted for the
group, and something might happen to prevent a shot at the others.
It was "a bird in the hand" again, and I had been false to the motto
which had so often proved true.

Then the "something" I had feared did happen. We saw a grasscutter
with two donkeys emerge from a ravine on the left and strike along
the grassy bridge five hundred yards beyond us. If he turned to the
right across the upper edge of the meadows, we could whistle for our
sheep. Even if he kept straight ahead, possibly they might scent
him. The Mongol's face was like a thundercloud. I believe he would
have strangled that grasscutter could he have had him in his hands.
But the Fates were kind, and the man with his donkeys kept to the
left across the uplands. Even then my Mongol would not hurry. His
motto was "Slowly, slowly," and we seemed barely to crawl up the
slope of the shallow valley which I hoped still held the sheep.

On the summit of the draw the old hunter motioned me behind him and
cautiously raised his head. Then a little farther. Another step and
a long look. He stood on tiptoe, and, settling back, quietly
motioned me to move up beside him.

Just then a gust of wind swept across the hilltop and into the
ravine. There was a rush of feet, a clatter of sliding rock, and
three _argali_ dashed into view on the opposite slope. They stopped
two hundred yards away. My hunter was frantically whispering, "One
more. Don't shoot. Don't shoot." I was at a loss to understand, for
I knew there were only three sheep in the draw. The two rams both
seemed enormous, and I let drive at the leader. He went down like
lead--shot through the shoulders. The two others ran a few yards and
stopped again. When I fired, the sheep whirled about but did not
fall. I threw in another shell and held the sight well down. The
"putt" of a bullet on flesh came distinctly to us, but the ram stood
without a motion.

The third shot was too much, and he slumped forward, rolled over,
and crashed to the bottom of the ravine. All the time Na-mon-gin was
frantically whispering, "Not right. Not right. The big one. The big
one." As the second sheep went down I learned the reason. Out from
the valley directly below us rushed a huge ram, washed with white on
the neck and shoulders and carrying a pair of enormous, curling
horns. I was too surprised to move.