ustin was gone. A moment ago he’d been right behind his dad, sidehilling the ridge to get in position above the bachelor herd. But sometime in the last five minutes the teenager had slipped away into the scrub. Ted Sheedy thought of their emergency radios, switched off for the stalk. Baffled, he backtracked to see where the hell his son had got to. He found trampled sagebrush where Justin had settled prone behind his rifle, but no Justin. Meanwhile, the rams were feeding out of sight into a side draw. The only thing to do was wait. It was still shooting light when the sheep came pouring back out of the draw. Ted hadn’t heard a shot, but here they were, running right past, eight or nine dust-colored rams, all spooked by something. If he’d had the tag and the rifle, Ted could’ve shot any one of them. The gathering dark finally forced Ted to start picking his way toward camp. On the hike back he bumped into Justin, who was doing the same thing. Justin, it turned out, had worried the milling rams would bolt and dropped down to intercept them. But the wind had shifted, blowing his scent to the herd and his chance for the evening. Ted wrestled with his frustration, ticked the 19-year-old had doubted their plan and his experience. But this season was disappearing fast, and he understood Justin’s urgency. So neither said much. Instead, the Sheedys turned one last time to see the rams, now silhouetted on the horizon, looking back at them.