Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/116174
"Take the one on the right," I said. Again the rifle cracked, and the second ram rolled down to join the first – stone dead. For a moment neither of us moved. We saw, but we hardly dared to believe. Then I broke the spell with a wild war whoop and slapped Proctor between the shoulders. I raced across the rocks to the big ram. At that time, all records were fixed on base measurements. When I put the steel tape on S these horns, I read the astonishing figures of 18 ¾ inches around the base of one and 18 7/ 8 around the other. I made no record of it, but I recall both horns were more than 41 inches on the curl. They were extremely massive to the tips and heavily broomed. This, I believe, was the finest bighorn head ever taken by a sportsman in North America. I think I have the right to call myself a fair judge of bighorns P O R T I N G C 42 L A since I was the guide who led Martin Bovey to the present world record, and for years I guided in the limestone ranges of the Rockies where the great brown bighorn reaches his highest development. At the time, of course, neither Proctor nor I had any way of telling what fate held in store for this massive head. P icking up the big head, I balanced it on my shoulders with the base of a horn resting on each side of my neck, the points turned up. By grasping a point with one hand, I could carry the head nicely, though it was a heavy load. I started down the mountain with Proctor following. We reached a point on the ledge a foot or so above the final shelf on top of the cliff near the chimney. As I stepped down my boot hit a small, round rock and I felt my ankle turn under me with a sickening loss of balance. With the weight of that great ram head on my shoulders, there was no choice. I dropped in a heap and let the head go. The force of my fall slammed me onto the rock with a heavy jar, and I was projected toward the rim of the cliff in a sliding turn on my side. As I slid, I grabbed desperately for a handhold and felt something slam into the crook of my right arm. I came to a stop flat on my belly with my legs dangling over the cliff, my right arm locked around a rock sticking up from the ledge. Out of the corner of one eye I saw the sheep head tumbling in a free fall to disappear into the clouds below. For a second I hung there, unable to move. Then my left hand found a tiny crack in the rock and I managed to heave myself to safety. When I stood up, I saw Proctor on the ledge above. "You're badly hurt," he gasped. "No, I'm all right," I assured him. "But you're bleeding!" he insisted. SSICS