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.
