The meadows and all exposed slopes were bare of snow. The deer had not yet come back. Less averse to the proximity of man, the blacktail bands descended clear to the foothills each spring when the first shoots of green grass sprouted at the roots of the sage. They would follow the grass line up into the hills and not for another month would they cross the divide and join the elk in the Yellowstone meadows. The mountain sheep go up to winter instead of down, grazing on the highest flat-tops of the peaks where the savage winds that follow each storm keep the bald ridges scoured free of snow. They now came down for their first nip of green grass and for the first time Flash saw these shy animals in the valleys. But all this was not enough.
He must have company and here, away from Two Ocean Pass, there were no men, and he could not even experience the vicarious sense of companionship he had drawn from following them at night. He left the green bottoms and traveled up through the spruce. When he came out above timberline he headed straight for the Rampart Pass.
He had not left the tree line two hundred yards
