a handful yes, away, just that head with its crest of massive horn and the neck. Nothing more. Almost as a reflex I raised my rifle, let it take the little ivory head with first right center blow on that gray neck. I touched the trigger. A thousand bullets crashed back up my shirt was stirred, but a confused vision vision of a two-jointed buck heaving off the rock -- and all was still. But it was enough for me. There was no mistake this time. The game was mine. The sudden change from utter rejection to the greatest joy to a sportsman left me set me wild. I yelled with delight. I pounded you, too, old buck, on this rock would be cruel for mercy. I wanted to leap from the rocks to the spot where the game had disappeared but the thump would hold your arms let us go. For ten minutes we sat there waiting to make sure that its sheep would not get away while we were out of sight in the ravine below. But I knew in my heart that it was all unnecessary. My bullet had gone where I wanted it to go; that was quite enough. No deer, why should it crash with a mambcher ball squarely in the neck? When we did of from the ammo cap half way down its steep face.