After a restless night, with visions of sheep and photographs galore, we were up and ready to start about the time the ptarmigan were clucking their announcement of the rosy dawn. The country was cut into gently-sloping valleys clothed with verdure, between long ridges of mountains partly covered with snow. Through the glasses a dozen or more white specks on the mountain-side could be distinguished as sheep moving slowly as they grazed. We were too far away to tell whether there were any big rams in the flock.
Considering the topographical conditions, the wind and the method of approach, we mapped out our _modus operandi_ and started up the ridge of the mountain on the right. It was a long, hard pull and by the time we reached the summit all were wearied, especially my companion, who kept shouting a request not to go so fast. Several hours after we spied the sheep we were crawling stealthily over the backbone of the ridge where we expected to find the flock, but were sadly disappointed. The photographer threw his kodak back into the case with a quiet "d----"; the other pushed his "safety" on, threw his gun over his shoulder, and turned back with a shaking of the head that was more expressive than language. After examining carefully every likely place, all that we could find of the flock was one lonely little lamb looking at us as though in disgust. Presently it went away down into the valley and we watched it as it ascended the opposite side and disappeared as a little speck over the divide.
When we left camp in the morning the tenderfoot was still in bed and on our return we were surprised to see how happy he was. Pointing to the carcass of a little lamb, and beating his breast with his good right hand, he said: "I've got my sheep. No more tramping those d---- mountains for me. I'm going back to camp." We were very much disgusted to think he would travel six thousand miles and spend so much money to hunt one half-day and then turn "quitter." We used every argument in our power and as tactfully as possible tried to persuade him not to turn back, but of no avail. Turning to us he retorted: "You old Sourdoughs, I wouldn't follow you over those mountains for ten thousand dollars." So with a packer he started around the mountain towards camp, happy as a lark, promising us he would send the packer back with flour and other provisions. Little did we suspect that he would try to starve us out of the camp and thereby force us to return to headquarters.