# Shepherds of the Wild/Chapter 10

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Chapter X
No observer could make any mistake about Spot's position in the flock. Through all the maneuvers of the great band he kept the foremost place; and the other sheep followed him without question. The young and inexperienced herdsman thought at first that he was the old "bellwether" of the flock.
But in a very few moments he had to reconstruct some of his ideas. In the first place Spot was not old, and in the second he was obviously not a wether. He was not wrinkled and withered like the old ewes: sheep that had yielded their wool for many seasons. To Hugh's eyes he looked like a yearling ram; and rather amazing horns had begun to curve from his bold, rugged head.
Hugh was considerably puzzled. He was not a sheepman, but for the simple reason that there were no other yearling rams in the flock he believed that most of the previous season's crop of male lambs had been sold as wethers to the markets. The mature lambs were obviously kept apart until the breeding season in late fall or winter. Some exception had thus been made in the case of Spot. And Hugh found himself ​watching the sturdy sheep with a singular interest.
In the first place the animal lacked the uniform color of the other sheep. His basic color was neither white nor black, but a decided dark brown with white at the backs of the legs and the rump. This variation of color immediately won him his name. He was the only sheep in the flock with horns, and in some vague way the man realized that the outline of his figure was entirely different from that of the ewes.
Although he was massively and boldly built, there was an actual grace about his motions not to be seen in the ewes. His form looked lean and hard, for all its massive development, and he stood several good inches above the tallest ewe in the flock. Hugh found it hard to believe, however, that he was some imported, high-bred yearling ram that would later be used to help build up the standard of the flock. In spite of his exceptional height and strength, his trim body probably weighed less than some of the fat ewes, his wool was not unusual, and certainly one of his rugged, agile form would not yield tender mutton. The man found it increasingly difficult to explain his presence in the flock.
Hugh tried to head him off, only to find that he was surprisingly quick on his feet. Only because his flock were unable to follow him and the young ram whipped back to join them was Hugh able to round him up at all. And when ​he darted off in a half-circle the whole band came pell-mell after him as if, young as he was, they were afraid to trust themselves without his guidance.
The longer Hugh looked at him, the more he was marked from all the other sheep in the flock. Of course it was possible that the mere fact that he was a male of the species was enough thus to distinguish him; yet ignorant though he was of the ways of sheep, Hugh found this explanation insufficient. In the first place Spot was just a yearling and evidently not yet mature. He could not imagine some of those strong-minded old ewes trusting their lives and fortunes to any ordinary immature ram. But this creature had a carriage not to be seen in the others, seemingly a spirit and pride and self-reliance that didn't quite fit in with the nature of domestic sheep. His very stride revealed a bold, fearless, domineering disposition.
He did not graze easily, as did most of his followers. He skipped about across the whole front of the flock, now perching upon some lofty crag, now scampering up a narrow trail where the flock could scarcely follow. But in the hot, still late-afternoon, as the sheep were beginning to stir after a long rest in the forest shade, Spot gave him even further cause to wonder.
To Hugh, it seemed the hottest hour of the day. His human sense, however, misled him: in reality, the highest point had been reached, and ​the cool winds from off the snow fields were on their way to bring relief. The sheep were still resting in a compact band: Spot, at the extreme front rank of the flock, had climbed upon a little rocky eminence on the hillside. It was such a promontory as is to be seen often in the high Rockies, an outcropping of the rocky skeleton of the hill emerging—like the end of a broken bone through the flesh—from the brown earth of the hillside. It was such a place as the wolf chooses for her lair, and the poison people—the gray speckled rattlesnakes whose bite is death—like to stretch out upon through the long, still afternoons. Because it overlooked the whole glen and was at the edge of the stony hillside where he had been doomed to live, Running Feet, the coyote, found it a convenient place to look for game.
Why Spot had chosen such a place for his rest Hugh could not guess. It was not shaded and comfortable like the glen beneath. Nor did he lie down like the ewes below him, but stood alert, head up, nostrils open to receive any message that the wind might bring. Hugh found himself watching him with fascinated interest. It seemed to him that the animal was on guard over the flock, even as he himself and the dog,—a watchful sentinel for any danger that might threaten them.
If it were true, He had a right to his wonder. The domestic animals do not ordinarily appoint ​one of their number as a sentinel. They have depended on the protection of men for so many generations that this habit has died from the breeds. The wild creatures, however, still retain it. If indeed the ram should detect danger for the flock, there was no conceivable refuge for them, so there could have been no conscious intelligence behind the act. It was obviously a long-remembered instinct. Any of the fleet-footed hunters of the wild could overtake them, and the slaying was easy even for a little lynx, biting sure and true.
No one knew this fact any better than Running Feet, the coyote, emerging from the brushy thickets of the hillside in late afternoon. His second name was Coward—cowardice was part of the curse that Manitou had put upon him—but even a seasonal fawn would be brave enough to attack a sheep. It might be, approaching in the shelter of the thickets, he could get close enough to the flock to steal a lamb or ewe from its flanks.
It was not that he had forgotten the shepherd dogs that kept watch, or the herder with his gun. Running Feet was never able to forget things like these. Part of his curse was a far-reaching and calculating intelligence almost equal to that of a dog, a trait that would have been a tremendous advantage if he had been blessed with courage to go with it, but which to a coward meant only realization of a thousand dangers to make ​life a torment. He understood perfectly what displeasing treatment would be his if the dogs came upon him at the killing. Not even Broken Fang, the puma, can always protect himself against the onslaught of the Barking One on guard over the flocks. He is fast as lightning and as terrible as the she-wolves at the lair mouth. And Running Feet knew quite well the deadly qualities of the glittering stick that the herder carried in the hollow of his arm.
To-day, however, there was only one dog, and he worked on the far side of the flock. The herder rested under a tree; if Running Feet kept to the shelter of the brush, there was nothing to fear from him. True, he would be obliged to dip out into the open to seize one of the lambs, but if fortune only permitted them to lie close enough to the edge of the thicket, he could do it without danger. Fortune wasn't usually good to Running Feet; but to-day perhaps his luck had turned. And at that point in his wolfine thoughts he made out the figure of Spot, in tireless vigil on the highest point of the rock pile.
It was too good to be true. The distance was full two hundred yards from the herder; the dog was equally distant. The brush went clear to the base of the rocks; one or two little leaps into the open would put him within killing range. Then one or two slashing bites with his white fangs,—and that would complete a perfect afternoon.
​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 ​day of service! No event in his life had ever caused more regret.
No instruments may measure the speed of the human mind in a second of crisis. The glimpse of the charging coyote was of infinitesimal duration, yet Hugh had time in plenty for an overpowering wave of regret and rage. The time he lacked, however, was that for muscular response. There was none whatever to raise his rifle and take aim.
And at that instant his regrets were cut short. He suddenly shouted with delight. Spot was not to die so tamely,—in the fangs of Running Feet. All at once the young ram snapped about in the trail, making no attempt whatever to flee into the thickets on the other side of the rock pile. And he lowered his head in a posture of defense.
For long seconds he stood motionless, statuesque, his horns ready for the coyote's onslaught. There was something masterful, noble about the posture, not at all to be expected in the timid and defenseless domestic sheep. And the coyote drew up short in the trail.
The other sheep had sprung up, by now, and were crowding away from the rock pile: the dog sprang forward, barking, at the other side of the flock. Hugh stood waiting for a chance to aim his weapon. And still the tableau on the rocks remained unchanged: the young ram with lowered head, the coyote—his blood turning to milk inside of him—on the trail.
​Hugh's astonishment was nothing compared to the coyote's own. He had expected flight, panic,—anything on earth except an actual attitude of self-defense. Just for a moment he stood motionless, snarling, trying to find courage to attack. But not for nothing had Manitou put his curse upon him.
All at once it came to him that he had made a mistake. There was something familiar about the sturdy figure, the lowered head, the curling horns. He remembered certain passes in the High Rockies,—and various trim, horned creatures that might occasionally be met there. Even Broken Fang did not care to meet these people on a narrow trail,—and Running Feet remembered with some haste that he had an appointment on the other side of the hill.
At that instant Hugh shot. The distance was far; the bullet whizzed hot along Running Feet's shoulder. He didn't wait for a second shot. He turned and fled at the fastest pace he knew. And with the air whizzing past him he wholly missed the curious words that the herder uttered,—the strange remark that he made to Spot, still standing defiantly with lowered horns on the trail.
"Good Lord, Spot," he cried, "you're not just a sheep. Sure as I live, you're a ——" But he didn't finish telling what Spot was. Perhaps he didn't know; and the ideas that were glowing dimly in his brain did not yet take the form of a ​concrete thought. But more likely his attention was merely called away. For at that instant he saw his camp-tender advancing slowly up the trail.