CHAPTER 11
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That night Turgen could sleep little, but tossed and turned in anxiety lest his charges desert him. For they had become necessary to him, perhaps more necessary than he to them. The next morning he rose early and hurried to the feeding ground with a generous supply of grass. Good or bad, he must know the truth.
His fears were promptly quieted when he saw the rams’ fresh tracks in the clearing. As usual, he deposited the hay, then stood behind a rock to wait. But not for long. First to come were the scouts, then the leader. Then the family. In spite of their dirty-brown coats they were to him a lovely sight in their strength and grace and daring. The old leader was like a king arrayed in tatters, fully three feet in height and nearly six feet from tip to tip. The females, appropriately, were smaller, with almost straight horns, and held themselves with a kind of humility.
But it was the lambs to whom Turgen’s heart went out. “The darlings!” he whispered.
Of course, the shy one who never ventured from her mother’s side was a female, the gay prankish one a male. If in his play he dared approach the cliff, the old leader recalled him with a snort to his anxious parent.
“Eh! They are splendid children.”
The rams seemed at home and at ease wandering about the clearing, and Turgen was reminded that it took more than a single fright to make them forsake their accustomed haunts. They were known to be stubbornly faithful to the place which provided them with food and shelter.
Turgen was starting down the mountain to return home when he noticed the leader ram circle the clearing excitedly, then with amazing lightness spring to the top of a rocky ledge where he had a good view of the mountain side. Sharply he surveyed the region, and sharply gave warning.
The warning was taken up by the other males, and promptly the females ranged themselves in a circle with their rumps together and their heads pointing out. The lambs, held within the circle, pushed against their elders inquisitively in an effort to get out, where were the other males.
As a general, the leader was magnificent. From a height of at least twenty-five feet he dropped easily to the clearing and again made a full swing around its center edge. On another signal from him the males took posts along the cliff and the herd froze in position, front legs braced, horns lowered, all facing the exposed slope.
“An astonishing battle formation!” Turgen said to himself in excitement and wonder. The rams were prepared to fight off an enemy. But who was the enemy? “Wolves?” Turgen wondered. He had heard of rams’ exploits in battle, but never had he seen anything like this.
Intently he watched, and soon he saw three forest wolves approaching the clearing, enormous beasts made bold and dangerous by hunger through the winter. His heart beat fast with terror for his herd. What he would have given for a gun! Lacking that, he made sure that his knife was ready to hand, even though he knew himself to be a helpless onlooker should the wolves attack. “For I’m not a bird and not a ram, to go from crag to crag,” he thought.
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The first wolf had reached the edge of the clearing now. With his mouth open, revealing powerful tusks, and the hair erect on his spine, he was terrifying to look at. Turgen heard him growl, a low fierce rumble, and waited for him to pounce, but instead he flung himself full length on the ground while still keeping his burning eyes on the rams. Was he perhaps selecting his prey? Turgen did not know, but he saw how the female rams drew together in a closer circle behind the leader. It was quite clear by their staunch attitudes that the rams had no intention of running away.
What a battle it would be! But what chance had the rams against those three beasts?
The first wolf, tiring of inactivity and prompted by greed, decided against waiting longer for his companions and rose to his feet. Slowly he advanced. With each cautious step Turgen expected him to plunge.
Then an amazing thing happened. The old ram without warning, lowered his head to the ground and sprang at the advancing enemy. So exactly had he gauged the distance that his horns struck the wolf in the chest with an impact strong enough to raise him in the air and send him hurtling over the cliff. His howls echoed around the mountain as he fell and so distracted the other two wolves that they turned from the clearing and raced after their unlucky comrade.
It seemed not more than a minute that it took to wage and win the battle. Then the herd of rams broke formation to lie down and rest. Except for the lambs who were as full of play as ever.
Turgen, making his way home on legs which did not seem to belong to him, lived over again the old ram’s victory. It was as if the triumph were his own.
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