e puma and the wild intoxication of a hunting
wolf!

The cruel wounds inflicted by the sharp stones under my feet were
unnoticed. Away ahead of me was a moving object; it could use but three
legs, but that was one leg more than I had, and the ram had distanced
me. After an age of time I reached the rugged, broader footing of the
mountain side, and creeping up behind some sheltering rocks again fired
at the fleeing ram. With the impact of the bullet the sheep fell
headlong down a cliff to a projecting rock thirty feet below, where it
lay apparently dead. A moment later it again arose, seemingly as able as
ever, and ran along the face of the beetling rock where my eyes, aided
by powerful field glasses, could perceive no foothold; then it gave a
magnificent leap to a ledge on the opposite side of the narrow canyon
and fell dead, out of my reach.

Spent with my long, rough run, I naturally selected the most
comfortable seat in which to rest; this chanced to be a cushion of
heather-like plants along the side of a fragment of rock which
effectually concealed my body from view from the other side of the
chasm. Here, on the verge of that impassable canyon, I sat panting and
looking at the poor dead creature upon the opposite side; its right
front leg was shattered at the shoulder, a bullet had pierced its lungs.
Yet, with two fatal wounds and a useless leg, the plucky creature had
scaled the face of a cliff which one would think a squirrel would find
impossible to traverse and made leaps which might well be considered
improbable for a perfectly sound animal. The ram was dead and food for
the ravens, and a reaction had taken place in my mind; I felt like a
bloody murderer, and hung my head with a sense of guilt.

Presently, becoming conscious of that peculiar guttural noise, used by
Big Pete when desiring caution, and looking up I was amazed to see a
splendid Indian youth climb down the face of the opposite cliff, throw
his arms around the dead ram's neck and burst into deep but subdued
lamentation. For the first time I now saw that what I had mistaken for a
blood stain on the bighorn's neck was a red collar.

Cautiously producing my field glasses I examined the collar and
discovered it to be made of stained porcupine quills cleverly worked on
a buckskin band. The field glasses also told me that the boy's shirt was
trimmed with the same material, while a duplicate of the sheep's collar
formed a band which encircled his head,