Running Feet looked the ground over carefully. He didn't want to make any avoidable mistakes. It might be that the young ram would dash down and into the flock at the first sight of him, and although he could overtake any domestic sheep in a short run, it might necessitate a chase into the clearing and some danger from the herder's rifle. The wise course was to circle about the promontory, keeping as close as possible to the shadow of the thicket, and advance up the trail between Spot and his flock.
The wind was right, the shadows were long and strange, and even Running Feet the coward could see no chance of failure. He crept slowly from the thicket, a gray shadow few wilderness eyes were keen enough to see. His white fangs gleamed, the blood leaped in his veins. He made the stalk with complete success: Hugh had not been able to tell what living form had stirred the thicket at the base of Spot's lookout. And then the gray killer came bounding up the rocky trail.
Hugh saw him then. It was only a gray glimpse: by no possible chance could he have found a target for his rifle. The distance was far, the coyote's body half-obscured. He had only one thought: that Spot was doomed beyond any power of his to save him. Already, it seemed to him, he had developed a real affection for the self-reliant, spirited ram; and he had a sense of acute personal loss as he read its doom. To lose the brave leader of the flock in his first
