lower limit of Argali's range. It was the last days of the rut,—the season that was just now beginning. The old ram had been down from his high places looking for salt, and at first he had been just a little alarmed by the sight of the little band of all-white ewes fleeing so madly toward him. But understanding had come soon. He realized that these ewes were his own people,—cousins far remote and yet females of his own breed. They were sheep, even as he himself. Their wool was full of alien smells, they were awkward and slow and helpless, their bodies were fat where they should have been trim, yet they were his own kind.
The fact that he had considerable of a harem already did not matter here: for the old ram—like all of his brethren—was an incorrigible polygamist. Were not the fall days almost done? It was the autumnal madness, and a wilderness mating had come to pass before the moon had set.
And Spot had been the child of that union,—conceived in the far ranges that were his native land. But the strong ewe that was his mother did not follow her lord into his high trails, after all. Bill Elkins had come, Argali and his band had fled, and by driving the runaway sheep back to the flock the little bighorn—born the following spring—was to be cheated of his heritage.
All these memories swept the old flock leader as he came stealing through the forest shadows
