Part 15 (2/2)

We were just preparing to go when the hunter touched my arm.

”_Pan-yang_,” he whispered. ”There, coming over the hill. Don't move.”

Sure enough, a sheep was trotting slowly down the hillside in our direction. Why he did not see or smell us, I cannot imagine, for the wind was in his direction. But he came on, pa.s.sed within one hundred feet, and stopped on the summit of the opposite swell. What a shot!

He was so close that I could have counted the rings on his horns--and they were good horns, too, just the size we wanted for the group. But the hunter would not let me shoot. His heart was set upon the big ram peacefully sleeping a mile away.

”A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush” is a motto which I have followed with good success in hunting, and I was loath to let that _argali_ go even for the prospect of the big one across the valley. But I had a profound respect for the opinion of my hunter.

He usually guessed right, and I had found it safe to follow his advice.

So we watched the sheep walk slowly over the crest of the hill. The Mongol did not tell me then, but he knew that the animal was on his way to join the others, and his silence cost us the big ram. You may wonder how he knew it. I can only answer that what that Mongol did not know about the ways of sheep was not worth learning. He seemed to think as the sheep thought, but, withal, was a most intelligent and delightful companion. His ready sympathy, his keen humor, and his interest in helping me get the finest specimens of the animals I wanted, endeared him to me in a way which only a sportsman can understand. His Shansi dialect and my limited Mandarin made a curious combination of the Chinese language, but we could always piece it out with signs, and we never misunderstood each other on any important matter.

We had many friendly differences of opinion about the way in which to conduct a stalk, and his childlike glee when he was proved correct was most refres.h.i.+ng. One morning I got the better of him, and for days he could not forget it. We were sitting on a hillside, and with my gla.s.ses I picked up a herd of sheep far away on the uplands. ”Yes,” he said, ”one is a very big ram.” How he could tell at that distance was a mystery to me, but I did not question his statement for he had proved too often that his range of sight was almost beyond belief.

We started toward the sheep, and after half a mile I looked again.

Then I thought I saw a gra.s.scutter, and the animals seemed like donkeys. I said as much but the hunter laughed. ”Why, I saw the horns,” he said. ”One is a big one, a _very_ big one.” I stopped a second time and made out a native bending over, cutting gra.s.s. But I could not convince the Mongol. He disdained my gla.s.ses and would not even put them to his eyes. ”I don't have to--I _know_ they are sheep,” he laughed. But I, too, was sure. ”Well, we'll see,” he said. When we looked again, there could be no mistake; the sheep were donkeys. It was a treat to watch the Mongol's face, and I made much capital of his mistake, for he had so often teased me when I was wrong.

But to return to the sheep across the valley which we were stalking on that sunlit Thursday noon. After the ram had disappeared we made our way slowly around the hilltop, whence he had come, to gain a connecting meadow which would bring us to the ravine where the _argali_ were sleeping. On the way I was in a fever of indecision.

Ought I to have let that ram go? He was just what we wanted for the group, and something might happen to prevent a shot at the others.

It was ”a bird in the hand” again, and I had been false to the motto which had so often proved true.

Then the ”something” I had feared did happen. We saw a gra.s.scutter with two donkeys emerge from a ravine on the left and strike along the gra.s.sy bridge five hundred yards beyond us. If he turned to the right across the upper edge of the meadows, we could whistle for our sheep. Even if he kept straight ahead, possibly they might scent him. The Mongol's face was like a thundercloud. I believe he would have strangled that gra.s.scutter could he have had him in his hands.

But the Fates were kind, and the man with his donkeys kept to the left across the uplands. Even then my Mongol would not hurry. His motto was ”Slowly, slowly,” and we seemed barely to crawl up the slope of the shallow valley which I hoped still held the sheep.

On the summit of the draw the old hunter motioned me behind him and cautiously raised his head. Then a little farther. Another step and a long look. He stood on tiptoe, and, settling back, quietly motioned me to move up beside him.

Just then a gust of wind swept across the hilltop and into the ravine. There was a rush of feet, a clatter of sliding rock, and three _argali_ dashed into view on the opposite slope. They stopped two hundred yards away. My hunter was frantically whispering, ”One more. Don't shoot. Don't shoot.” I was at a loss to understand, for I knew there were only three sheep in the draw. The two rams both seemed enormous, and I let drive at the leader. He went down like lead--shot through the shoulders. The two others ran a few yards and stopped again. When I fired, the sheep whirled about but did not fall. I threw in another sh.e.l.l and held the sight well down. The ”putt” of a bullet on flesh came distinctly to us, but the ram stood without a motion.

The third shot was too much, and he slumped forward, rolled over, and crashed to the bottom of the ravine. All the time Na-mon-gin was frantically whispering, ”Not right. Not right. The big one. The big one.” As the second sheep went down I learned the reason. Out from the valley directly below us rushed a huge ram, washed with white on the neck and shoulders and carrying a pair of enormous, curling horns. I was too surprised to move. How could four sheep be there, when I knew there were only three!

Usually I am perfectly cool when shooting and have all my excitement when the work is done, but the unexpected advent of that ram turned on the thrills a bit too soon. I forgot what I had whispered to myself at every shot, ”Aim low, aim low. You are shooting down hill.” I held squarely on his gray-white shoulder and pulled the trigger. The bullet just grazed his back. He ran a few steps and stopped. Again I fired hurriedly, and the ball missed him by the fraction of an inch. I saw it strike and came to my senses with a jerk; but it was too late, for the rifle was empty. Before I could cram in another sh.e.l.l the sheep was gone.

Na-mon-gin was absolutely disgusted. Even though I had killed two fine rams, he wanted the big one. ”But,” I said, ”where did the fourth sheep come from? I saw only three.” He looked at me in amazement. ”Didn't you know that the ram which walked by us went over to the others?” he answered. ”Any one ought to have known that much.”

Well, I hadn't known. Otherwise, I should have held my fire. Right there the Mongol read me a lecture on too much haste. He said I was like every other foreigner--always in a rush. He said a lot of other things which I accepted meekly, for I knew that he was right. I always _am_ in a hurry. Missing that ram had taken most of the joy out of the others; and to make matters worse, the magnificent animal stationed himself on the very hillside where we had been sitting when we saw them first and, with the little ewe close beside him, watched us for half an hour.

Na-mon-gin glared at him and shook his fist. ”We'll get you to-morrow, you old rabbit,” he said; and then to me, ”Don't you care.

I won't eat till we kill him.”

For the next ten minutes the kindly old Mongol devoted himself to bringing a smile to my lips. He told me he knew just where that ram would go; we couldn't have carried in his head anyway; that it would be much better to save him for to-morrow; and that I had killed the other two so beautifully that he was proud of me.

I continued to feel better when I saw the two dead _argali_. They were both fine rams, in perfect condition, with beautiful horns. One of them was the sheep which had walked so close to us; there was no doubt of that, for I had been able to see the details of his ”face and figure.” Every _argali_ has its own special characters which are unmistakable. In the carriage of his head, the curve of his horns, and in coloration, he is as individual as a human being.

While we were examining the sheep, Harry and his hunter appeared upon the rim of the ravine. They brought with them, on a donkey, the skin and head of a fine two-year-old ram which he had killed an hour earlier far beyond us on the uplands. It fitted exactly into our series, and when we had another big ram and two ewes, the group would be complete.

Poor Harry was hobbling along just able to walk. He had strained a tendon in his right leg the previous morning, and had been enduring the most excruciating pain all day. He wanted to stay and help us skin the sheep, but I would not let him We were a long way from camp, and it would require all his strength to get back at all.

At half-past four we finished with the sheep, and tied the skins and much of the meat on the two donkeys which Harry had commandeered.

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