All the dreams by which Spot knew of his lost heritage were realities to
old Argali, leader of a band of wild mountain sheep, or bighorn, that
had their craggy home in the high ranges of the Upper Salmon Mountains.
The winged danger that fell from the clouds to menace the young lambs
was not a memory to him: it was just an unavoidable detail of his life.
Perhaps it was more familiar to the ewes, whose lambs were the lights of
their souls, but old Argali had become rather indifferent to it years
before. For the winged death was simply the great golden eagle who had
his eyrie on a high ledge.
He had known in his own life the joys that Spot had dreamed about and
missed: the wild runs, the leaping from ledge to ledge, the rough games,
the glory of the sunset on the high peaks. In his own time he had stood
on the high pinnacles and let the last red glow of the sun fall over
him. He had known the strife, the danger, the exultation, and his flock
would follow him wherever he chose to go.
There was no more magnificent creature in the whole mountain world than
he. To Hugh, who had never seen a mountain sheep, his coloring would
have recalled but one creature on earth,—Spot himself. He had massive
horns that could strike with resistless might, sturdy legs and little
clinging hoofs that could scale the face of a precipice. A lone wolf
wouldn’t have cared to meet old Argali on a narrow trail. Only Broken
Fang himself had prowess enough to conquer him in a fair fight,—and
Broken Fang usually hunted in the woods far, far below Argali’s range.
But the bighorn ram had memories also; and it was because of them that
he took the narrow trail down into the valleys this mid-September night.
The wind—a soft little breath that had stolen up from the hills where
the flock fled—had brought him a message; and it carried him back to an
autumn night of two seasons before, recalling certain stirring events
that had occurred upon a distant mountain side.
It was wholly possible that Bill Elkins, a herder who the following
spring had gone over to Fargo and his gang, could remember that night
also. But he had no real knowledge of the strange mountain drama that
had taken place. His only recollection of it concerned a long and weary
climb after a little band of strays that had wandered from the main band
of domestic sheep and which a wolf had chased far into the distant
mountains.
He did not know of the dramatic meeting that had taken place on a
far-away crag that was the 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 in response to that stirring message in the
wind. He came out into the moonlit meadow; he lifted high his
magnificent horns. And the wilderness gods—kind at last to this man of
cities who had given his heart to the wilderness—wakened Hugh in time
to behold the sight.
It was such a scene that the memory ever cherishes, a mystery and a
delight through all of life. In all that breadth of forest there was no
picture more wonderful, no forest drama that went more deeply into the
mysteries of the wild. He felt as if the mountains had opened their
secret heart to him at last. He scarcely moved in his blankets lest the
charm should break.
He didn’t know why he was so awed. It was as if the centuries had rolled
back and had given him a glimpse of the young world,—when the holy
communion of men and nature still endured. He sensed the immutable
enforcement of great laws,—perhaps one instant’s half-darkened glimpse
of the whole, unfathomable scheme of existence. And he was moved to the
depths of his being by the sheer beauty and wonder of the scene.
The moonlight was a miracle in itself. It enchanted the meadows, it
filled the open forest with gliding ghosts, it turned to snow the great,
sleeping flock. The brush thickets were a mystery, a darkness that
passed understanding. And at the edge of the forest stood the bighorns,
forms in marble, noble past all words.
Yet it could endure but a moment more. Even now the great ram had begun
to grow suspicious. The firelight cast a faint red glamor, and Argali
eyed it with suspicion. There were unfamiliar smells in the air too: one
that remotely suggested Cry-in-the-night and the other that he had
experienced when Bill Elkins had come to drive back his ewes. He turned
silently, starting to slip away.
But at that instant Spot—the yearling ram that had led the domestic
flock—leaped forward as a meteor leaps in the sky. He knew this breed
that had come down from the fastnesses. They were of his lost land, and
even now they were turning back to the crags of which he had dreamed.
Hugh saw the motion, gasped once in the depths of wonder, and sprang to
his feet. The dog barked and raced about the flank of the flock.
Hugh cried out. Swept with wonder and tingling in every nerve, he
couldn’t suppress the utterance. He saw old Argali pause with lowered
horns as Spot raced toward him. His little flock stood statuesque for a
single instant, as if they were waiting for him to join them. These were
Spot’s people: in the moonlight there was no difference between them and
the other bighorn yearlings. Hugh understood now why Spot had differed
from the domestic sheep. And Shep raced—jealous as ever for the
integrity of the flock—to cut off Spot’s flight.
And for the first time in his career with the sheep Hugh broke his
trust. His business, too, was to keep the flock together, to help the
dog round up the truants and the strays. Yet the promptings of his own
spirit bade otherwise. He had repatriated himself, he had come to his
lost land, and was such a right to be denied the bighorn that had led
the flock? Spot’s place was in the rough crags and the high trails, snow
sweep and precipice and the ruddy glow of sunset, not feeding with the
domestic sheep. He knew that Alice would understand.
“Come back, Shep,” he called into the stillness. The dog turned,
hesitated, then, faithful servant that he was, came trotting back. Spot
overtook the flock and the forest closed behind him. The bighorn ram had
come into his heritage.