"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?"