“Yes,” mumbled Phil, “ain’t we goin’ to bag him?”
Then, to the surprise of his companions, Phil dropped down on a rock and buried his face in his hands. That broke Frank’s spell.
“What’s the matter here? Wake up!” he cried grasping Phil by the shoulder. “It’s ‘Old Baldy’ alive. Maybe not kickin’, but alive.”
“‘Old Baldy!’” shouted Phil springing to his feet. “What was I doin’?”
“You were having the rattles,” laughed Frank nervously. “And so was I. I certainly never expected to really see him.”
So far as could be seen not an animal had moved. The flock, as if panic-stricken, stood huddled at the bottom of the big ram’s shelf. The strangely marked leader still lay with his head erect and alert. Phil, not yet wholly himself, drew a long breath.
“He’s alive, I reckon, but he looks like a ghost,” said Phil. “And by cracky, he is a ghost to me.”
“He ain’t a ghost,” exclaimed Frank, moistening his lips, “and I wouldn’t make him one for all the ram’s horns in the Rockies.”
“That would be potting, I fancy,” commented Lord Pelton. “I rather believe your ‘Old Baldy’ is on his last legs.”