The Indian
had brought with him a red scarf and a mesquite branch. He tied
the scarf to the stick, and propped this up in a crack of the lava.
The scarf waved in the wind. That done, the Indian bade Gale watch.
Once again he leveled the glass at the sheep. All five were
motionless, standing like statues, heads pointed across the gully.
They were more than a mile distant. When Gale looked without his
glass they merged into the roughness of the lava. He was intensely
interested. Did the sheep see the red scarf? It seemed incredible,
but nothing else could account for that statuesque alertness. The
sheep held this rigid position for perhaps fifteen minutes. Then
the leading ram started to approach. The others followed. He
took a few steps, then halted. Always he held his head up, nose
pointed.
"By George, they're coming!" exclaimed Gale. "They see that flag.
They're hunting us. They're curious. If this doesn't beat me!"
Evidently the Indian understood, for he grunted.
Gale found difficulty in curbing his impatience. The approach of
the sheep was slow. The advances of the leader and the intervals
of watching had a singular regularity. He worked like a machine.
Gale followed him down the opposite wall, around holes, across
gullies, over ridges. Then Gale shifted the glass back to find
the others. They were coming also, with exactly the same pace
and pause of their leader. What steppers they were! How
sure-footed! What leaps they made! It was thrilling to watch
them.
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