Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/116174
away, he paused to look back before dropping out of sight over the ridge. The sculptor was completely unnerved. He shook as he stood gazing after the ram. "I don't understand it," he kept muttering. "I don't understand it." I found no hair or blood, and a careful inspection of the tracks convinced me that the ram was missed clean. We returned to camp. I first blamed the miss on buck fever. But when I picked up Proctor's rifle, I immediately saw the trouble. Instead of holding low, he tried to change his sight setting. Each time I'd told him to hold low, he'd screw the elevator of the sight the wrong way until it was raised to its limit. About 150 yards from the tent, I chopped a six-inch blaze on a stump. Then I screwed the sight down as far as it would go and told my client to take a few shots at the blaze. Lying prone behind a bedroll, he put five bullets in a fair group a trifle high on the target. spotted a fine ram bedded deep in loose talus about 150 yards above us. He had a full curl and heavy horns. Silently congratulating myself, I quickly got my client into position. The setup was next to perfect; the ram lay broadside, completely unaware of us, placidly chewing his cud. My hunter was seated behind the roots of a fallen tree with a comfortable, solid rest made to order for accurate shooting. There was some danger he'd overshoot, as the ram presented a narrow target, so I cautioned him to hold a trifle low. Proctor was visibly excited, and I made him wait till he steadied, then told him to shoot. At the crack of the rifle, rock dust spurted up about six inches over the ram's back. The sheep leaped up and stood gazing down past us. "Six inches over," I called softly. "Hold low." After what seemed an age, the rifle cracked again. This time, to my astonishment, the bullet powdered the rocks three feet high. Unaccountably, the ram stood still. "You're shooting high," I whispered frantically. "Hold low." After another agonizing pause, the rifle crashed a third time. I'll never know where that bullet struck. Most likely it missed the mountain entirely. Now the ram took a tremendous bound and tore straight up the slope. On the skyline, three-quarters of a mile S P O R T I N ext morning at sunrise, we rode down the valley to hunt out a series of basins. It was clear and frosty without a breath of wind – a typical Indian summer day in October. The trail wound through heavy timber close to the stream. For a mile the trees hid the mountains above. Then we came to the edge of a rocky draw coming N G C 35 L A SSICS