In his frequent trips from the East he had seen many such miracles of sunrise among the Western mountains, but familiarity had not dulled his senses to them, and he was never able to take the wonder lightly. But as he gazed, the downward wash of that enchanted light suddenly brought into view a shape which set Merivale's pulses leaping and made him straightway forget the sunrise. On the giddy tip of a crag which jutted out from the steep, stood perched a stately mountain ram, his noble head, with its massive, curled horns sweeping backwards over his shoulders, high uplifted as he searched the waste for any sign of danger to his ewes. This was the splendid springtime game in quest of which Merivale had come up from the foothills with his camera. He crept forward again, stealthily and swiftly, keeping well beneath the cover of the branches.
Suddenly there burst upon his ears a sound which brought him to an instant stop. It was not loud, but as it came muffled through the gloom, there was something monstrous and terrifying about it. The sound came from somewhere above Merivale's head and around to the left of where he crouched. It told him of a desperate struggle, of one of those tremendous battles to the death in which the great beasts of the wild so rarely allow themselves to become involved. There was a heavy crashing and trampling of underbrush, a
