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into the canyon from our right. Spring avalanches had swept the timber out of it and bared the rocks here and there. Stopping my horse just inside the timber, I glassed the upper slopes. A good ram was bedded on a ledge 400 yards above us – too far to try a shot. The ram was gazing fixedly toward us, which made me sure he'd spotted the horses. My horse was white and I was reasonably sure the sheep could see part of him through the screen of spruce boughs. Cautiously, I instructed Proctor to slide off his horse, take his rifle and sneak up through the timber to a spot within range, where he could see to shoot. I'd stay with the horses and move once in a a day off. He liked my suggestion, and when I left he was busy with sketchbook and watercolors. When I returned that afternoon he greeted me excitedly. At noon he'd climbed some rock outcrops at the head of the valley. He alternated his sketching with long looks through his glasses. About mid-afternoon he saw three big rams walk onto a ridge crest about a mile below camp on the north rim of the canyon. "I'm sure they're bigger than anything we've seen," he exclaimed. Our evening fire was a complete contrast to the previous one. I silently hoped for a break in our bad For ten minutes I held my 8x binoculars on it; then it moved. Like magic the tremendous outline of a big ram's head came into focus, and I almost choked on a mouthful of cold bannock at the size of it. while to hold the ram's attention. Proctor moved off slowly through the trees and disappeared. The ram never moved a hair, but continued to look toward me. The minutes dragged like years. After what seemed an age, the mountains echoed with the crash of a shot. Through my glasses I saw rock dust puff over the ram's back. As the big sheep bounced to his feet, I roared, "Hold low!" Again came the sharp crash and to my disgust this bullet went four feet high. First the ram bounded straight down over a couple of ledges, then turned and leaped back up again to come to a stand just a little above his bed. The third shot was another miss. The ram jumped across the open draw into the timber. When I reached Proctor, he was leaning against a tree, staring at his rifle. I reached over and took it; the sight was again screwed up to its limit. We rode to camp in silence. I went to the tent and dug into my sack of "possibles" for a little roll of brass wire. Once more I screwed the peep sight down to the bottom. Then I solidly wired it there. That fancy rifle looked a bit queer wired up like an Indian's battered fusee, but I was determined that the sight wouldn't get moved again. We hunted for the rest of the day and although we saw several fair rams, none were suitable trophies. Proctor was dejected and halfhearted about hunting. I felt sorry for him. N luck the following day – the last day of sheep season. The prospects at dawn were cheerless, for the wind blew out of the northeast, carrying the smell of winter. Gray fingers of clouds slid around the peaks, and the sky was dirty gray. But by ten o'clock our hopes were going up fast, for the sun had burned through the overcast to make visibility good, though the air still was biting cold. I planned to leave the horses and climb above timberline on the south side of the canyon, where we could glass a series of basins on the opposite slopes. There were three big basins arranged like a giant cloverleaf near where Proctor had seen the rams, and I was gambling on finding them in one of these. For two hours we climbed nearly horizontally along the mountain face, taking time out for long looks through our glasses. The first two basins were empty. At noon we reached a spot overlooking the third. We sat with our backs to a boulder hidden in a tangle of firs. As we ate, we searched the slides and boulder fields for the three rams. Letting my glasses wander, I swung them up onto a saddle on the ridge crest and then across the broken face of Mount Yarrow directly opposite. High on the peak among a jumbled boulder field something caught my eye. It didn't match the gray limestone and was the right shape for a ram's horn. For ten minutes I held my 8x binoculars on it; then it moved. Like magic the tremendous outline of a big ram's head came into focus, and I almost choked on a mouthful of cold bannock at the size of it. Then, in the rocks close to the big one, I spotted two more rams. My excitement mounted, for though either was a fine trophy, they both looked small compared to the first. When I showed them to Proctor, he was jubilant, ext morning I suggested that he spend the day sketching, while I made a quick trip home. My wife was at the ranch alone with a new baby and I was anxious about her. I also thought it might be just as well to give my hunter S P O R T I N G C 36 L A SSICS