It was too good to be true. The distance was full two hundred yards from the herder; the dog was equally distant. The brush went clear to the base of the rocks; one or two little leaps into the open would put him within killing range. Then one or two slashing bites with his white fangs—and that would complete a perfect afternoon.
Running Feet looked the ground over carefully. He didn’t want to make any avoidable mistakes. It might be that the young ram would dash down and into the flock at the first sight of him, and although he could overtake any domestic sheep in a short run, it might necessitate a chase into the clearing and some danger from the herder’s rifle. The wise course was to circle about the promontory, keeping as close as possible to the shadow of the thicket, and advance up the trail between Spot and his flock.
The wind was right, the shadows were long and strange, and even Running Feet the coward could see no chance of failure. He crept slowly from the thicket, a gray shadow few wilderness eyes were keen enough to see. His white fangs gleamed, the blood leaped in his veins. He made the stalk with complete success: Hugh had not been able to tell what living form had stirred the thicket at the base of Spot’s lookout. And then the gray killer came bounding up the rocky trail.
Hugh saw him then. It was only a gray glimpse: by no possible chance could he have found a target for his rifle. The distance was far, the coyote’s body half-obscured. He had only one thought: that Spot was doomed beyond any power of his to save him. Already, it seemed to him, he had developed a real affection for the self-reliant, spirited ram; and he had a sense of acute personal loss as he read its doom. To lose the brave leader of the flock in his first day of service! No event in his life had ever caused more regret.
No instruments may measure the speed of the human mind in a second of crisis. The glimpse of the charging coyote was of infinitesimal duration, yet Hugh had time in plenty for an overpowering wave of regret and rage. The time he lacked, however, was that for muscular response. There was none whatever to raise his rifle and take aim.
And at that instant his regrets were cut short. He suddenly shouted with delight. Spot was not to die so tamely—in the fangs of Running Feet. All at once the young ram snapped about in the trail, making no attempt whatever to flee into the thickets on the other side of the rock pile. And he lowered his head in a posture of defense.
For long seconds he stood motionless, statuesque, his horns ready for the coyote’s onslaught. There was something masterful, noble about the posture, not at all to be expected in the timid and defenseless domestic sheep. And the coyote drew up short in the trail.
The other sheep had sprung up, by now, and were crowding away from the rock pile: the dog sprang forward, barking, at the other side of the flock. Hugh stood waiting for a chance to aim his weapon. And still the tableau on the rocks remained unchanged: the young ram with lowered head, the coyote—his blood turning to milk inside of him—on the trail.
Hugh’s astonishment was nothing compared to the coyote’s own. He had expected flight, panic—anything on earth except an actual attitude of self-defense. Just for a moment he stood motionless, snarling, trying to find courage to attack. But not for nothing had Manitou put his curse upon him.
All at once it came to him that he had made a mistake. There was something familiar about the sturdy figure, the lowered head, the curling horns. He remembered certain passes in the High Rockies—and various trim, horned creatures that might occasionally be met there. Even Broken Fang did not care to meet these people on a narrow trail—and Running Feet remembered with some haste that he had an appointment on the other side of the hill.
At that instant Hugh shot. The distance was far; the bullet whizzed hot along Running Feet’s shoulder. He didn’t wait for a second shot. He turned and fled at the fastest pace he knew. And with the air whizzing past him he wholly missed the curious words that the herder uttered—the strange remark that he made to Spot, still standing defiantly with lowered horns on the trail.
“Good Lord, Spot,” he cried, “you’re not just a sheep. Sure as I live, you’re a—” But he didn’t finish telling what Spot was. Perhaps he didn’t know; and the ideas that were glowing dimly in his brain did not yet take the form of a concrete thought. But more likely his attention was merely called away. For at that instant he saw his camp-tender advancing slowly up the trail.
XI
Hugh Gaylord had, like all men, experienced some rather violent surprises in his time. They had been coming exceptionally thick and fast since he had come to Smoky Land. His changed attitude toward life and his behavior in regard to the flocks had been amazing experiences in themselves. He had just experienced a rather violent shock on beholding the warlike behavior of Spot. The previous night he had been through the unusual experience of finding the body of a murdered man in a tent. But he suddenly realized that he was
