Davy Jones had made all his arrangements. He had only to press the button, when the slight “click” told that his picture was an accomplished fact, and that if the hunters did as well, the expedition might be set down as a glorious success.

Davy had carried his shotgun fastened to his back with a strap, while he worked his little camera. Now he reached out for the gun, although realizing the folly of trying to do any execution at that distance with buckshot cartridges.

“Now!” said the guide, suddenly.

It would seem as though he spoke aloud purposely, knowing what the effect was apt to be. Every feeding big-horn raised its head instantly, and for the space of several seconds stood there as though carved out of stone.

A better chance for a shot could not be imagined.

“Bang!”

“Whang!”

That was Smithy firing first, and the second report told that Step Hen’s little thirty-thirty was on the job instantly.

One big-horn sheep fell over on the rock, and kicked several times. It might have fallen over the ledge only that somehow the body seemed to become fast in a crotch; and there it lay in a tantalizing position, for only by a most difficult climb downward could it be reached at all.

“Oh! I hit mine, and he’s fallen down there!” cried Smithy in a voice that just thrilled with wild exultation; and hardly had he said this than he added, in a deeply crushed tone: “Oh! wasn’t that too cruel of him now, to just bound off on his horns like they were skies, and get on his feet again? There he goes now, and see him limp, will you, fellows? I hit him, yes, I surely did!”

“Well, he’s gone, and that’s the last you’re likely to see of him, more’s the pity,” said Step Hen; “but look at my game, would you, stuck there in among them rocks? Toby, we must manage to get him, some way or other. Tell me how it can be done, won’t you?”

The guide scratched his head, as if himself a bit puzzled.

“Only one way I kin see, boys,” he observed, “and that means a lot more climbing for us.”

“You mean we’ll just have to work around, and get up there above the place where my big-horn lies, as dead as a door nail; is that it, Toby?” questioned Step Hen, perhaps unconsciously placing great emphasis on that pronoun; nor could he be blamed for feeling proud, if half that the guide had told them concerning the difficulties encountered by hunters of Rocky Mountain sheep were true.

“Just what I had in mind,” replied Toby.

“Then let’s make a start,” urged Step Hen. “My stars! I wouldn’t like to lose that splendid fellow for anything. Just think of having that pair of horns to put in our club room at home, Davy. I hope you got a good picture, too; because we c’n have an enlargement taken, and hang it under my horns.”

“I don’t see any growing out of your head, yet, Step Hen,” chuckled Davy, as he and the third scout fell in behind the others, and started forth.

One thing made it a little easier now; they did not have to be so particular about moving softly, since their aim had been accomplished, and they had shot their bolt.

But the way was rough enough at the best. Smithy had a hard time of it. He was forever bruising his hands, for they were not so tough in the palms as those of the other boys, who had been accustomed to work and hard play. Besides, often he took a little slide and in this fashion tore his trousers as well as made quite a gash in his leg. But the other boys rather fancied that Smithy, unable to wholly overcome his former love for fine clothes, grieved more on account of that big rent in his khaki trousers, than he did for the bleeding leg, though it must have pained him considerably.

Still, he did not murmur; Smithy was showing much more grit than either of the others had ever dreamed he possessed. Like Bumpus, it only seemed to need a fitting opportunity to come to the surface; as is the case with many backward boys.

As they turned an angle of the rocks, Step Hen gave a shout.

“What’s this? What’s this?” he called.

“Oh! please don’t shoot!” shrilled Smithy, wonderfully excited again; “It must be the sheep I struck with my bullet; see how the poor thing drags that leg after him? Let me have the pleasure of knocking him over, and putting him out of pain?”

“Get busy then, or he’ll give you the slip after all. Quick, Smithy, or I’ll be tempted to shoot him myself. Whoop! you did it that time, Smithy! Good boy!” and Step Hen fairly danced in his excitement.

Smithy had made good. How he did it, he never could tell; but somehow, when he just pointed his gun in a general way toward the escaping big-horn, and pulled the trigger, why, the already badly wounded animal fell over, gave a couple of last kicks, and then lay still.

But strange to say, Smithy was less given to excitement over his exploit than either of the other boys. As they all bent over the big-horn to admire his sturdy frame, and the head ornaments that distinguish him among all his kind, Smithy was seen to stroke the hairy back of the dead sheep, and clinch his teeth hard together, as though after all he felt half sorry that a sudden whim had caused him to actually take a life that nothing could restore. Evidently it would be some time before Smithy could so far overcome his former gentle traits of character to feel the hunter’s fierce lust for his quarry.

“But this ain’t getting my big-horn, you know,” remarked Step Hen, as though the feel of those massive curved head-pieces had thrown him into a new fever of impatience to secure his own trophies; for it would be a shame if the greenhorn of the party should be the only one to exhibit positive evidences of their having shot game.

“Come along then, and we’ll soon git around to whar p’raps ye might climb down, if so be ye’re keerful not to slip,” and the guide once more started off.

“Oh! do we abandon my big-horn, then?” cried Smithy, as though half tempted to refuse to leave the spot on what might prove to be a wild-goose chase; to him it seemed like leaving the substance to try and catch the shadow.

“We kin come back this way, and take keer of it then,” said Toby; and with this assurance Smithy had to rest content.

After some further scrambling along the face of the steep slope, digging their toes into the shale that often crumbled under them, when they might risk a serious ride down the side of the mountain only for the fact that they managed to cling fast with their hands, they reached a point where it was extra rocky, and a pretty sheer descent.

“Down thar your sheep lies,” the guide said, pointing as he spoke.

Step Hen immediately laid his gun aside, and crawling to the edge he looked over.

“I don’t see hide or hair of it, though, Toby?” he complained.

“No more you kin,” returned the other, with decision marked in both voice and manner; “but all the same it’s down thar, not more’n a hundred feet at most. I got my bearin’s fine. Look off yonder, and yell see whar we lay when ye did the shootin’ at the big horns.”

“He’s right, Step Hen,” said Davy Jones, after looking to where the guide was pointing so confidently. “I’d know that rock among a thousand. I’ll never forget it, either. And yes, your sheep must be lying below us right now.”

“I think the same, fellows,” asserted Smithy, who was beginning to feel that he ought to give his opinion of things after this, since he was now an actual boni fide hunter, and had even secured one of the most wary of all wild animals in the whole West.

“But why don’t I see it, then?” demanded Step Hen, always very stubborn, and needing to be shown.

“Ye see,” the guide explained, “the face of the mountain backs in some, in a general way. That tells the story. The only thing that bothers me is, if I had ought to let ye try and get down thar, so’s to shove the sheep off, and land it at the bottom; or make the riffle myself.”

“Oh! I wouldn’t think of letting you try it,” declared Step Hen, quickly. “I’m young and spry, and used to climbing up cliffs and such stunts, besides,” he added as a clincher, “it’s my big horn, you know.”

Had either of the other boys backed him up, the chances were that Toby Smathers might have refused to give his permission; for he knew that there would naturally be considerable risk involved in such an undertaking; but then both Davy and his comrade, Smithy, saw nothing so very unusual in the proceeding, the one because he was not accustomed to judging such things; and Davy on account of being such a clever gymnast himself, always doing dangerous tricks, such as hanging from a high limb of a tree by his toes, coming down the outside of a tree by using the branches as a descending ladder, and all such “crazy antics,” as Giraffe called them.

“Here, somebody hold my gun,” said Step Hen, with an air of resolution.

“You’re going to be some keerful, I take it?” questioned the guide, dubiously.

“Course I am; what d’ye take me for, Toby? Think I want to go to my own funeral in a hurry? Not much. Oh! I c’n be careful, all right. Don’t you worry about me. And I want that big-horn worse than ever, I do. Here goes, then.”

He started down the face of the almost perpendicular precipice. There were plenty of places where he could get a good foothold, and secure a grip with his ready hands. The only danger seemed to be, as the guide had warned him, in having some apparently secure rock suddenly give way under his weight. He must watch out for that constantly, and never take a fresh step unless he was sure he could maintain his hold upon the last knob of rock.

“Call out if we can help any, Step Hen,” was what Davy said, as they saw the last of their companion’s head just about to vanish, where the first inward dip to the precipice occurred.

“Sure I will, and just you remember our signal code, Davy. I may have to use it if I get caught tight in a crack, and can’t break away nohow. Good-bye, be good to yourselves, now, and don’t go to believin’ that there’s any chance of me losing my grip.”

Then he vanished from their sight. A dreadful clatter of falling stones gave the two scouts still above a case of the “trembles” immediately afterwards, and Davy called at the top of his voice:

“I say, Step Hen!”

“All right;” welled up from somewhere below them; “did that on purpose to test a stepping place. Ketch a weasel asleep, before you get me to stand on a loose place, why, it’s as easy as fallin’ off a log, this is.”