of time. He was a heavy man in
his 50s and the combination of
unaccustomed altitude, steep
going and excitement left him
gasping and pouring sweat. Finally
he reached the top and thankfully
threw himself on the first ledge.
After a few minutes I picked
up his rifle and beckoned him
to follow. Our progress was
agonizingly slow and interrupted
by frequent stops. Finally we
reach the crest. Pushing ahead,
I cautiously lifted my head and
looked over.
What I saw almost stopped my
breath. The boulder field fell away
in a saucer-shaped depression;
picking their way slowly across it,
three great rams walked single-file
in majestic parade. The smallest
was a full-curl ram with horns big
enough to make any hunter proud.
The second was even bigger, while
the leader carried a head beyond
the wildest dream. His great horns
curled around past the bridge of
his nose and were tremendously
massive and heavy, with the tips
broomed off to broad points. It
was by far the biggest head I had
seen on any sheep, and I had
trouble believing my eyes.
Proctor eased up beside me and
took his rifle. He was transformed
by the sight of the sheep.
"Take the leader," I whispered
unnecessarily in his ear as he
lifted the rifle.
We were looking down on the
sheep at a range of about 50
yards. The leader was traveling
straight away. Then he stopped
to look out over the mountain,
and the rifle went off in my ear.
I saw a wad of hair lift off the
middle of his back. Then the big
animal slumped in a heap with
his head stretched out in front
of him and never moved again.
The two other rams leaped onto
the rocks above him and stood
looking down in astonishment.
In those days licenses allowed
two rams for each hunter, and I
wasted no time.
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