hat 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