“I wish that a flock of sheep would stray this way,” Mr. Brown said, while scraping some dried grass together for the purpose of making a fire, while I was occupied in undoing the pack which contained our provisions, as well as our tools and cooking utensils; “I feel like having a mutton chop for supper,” he continued.

“Behold your wish,” I replied, pointing to a flock of about a thousand sheep, led by a patriarch, whose horns proclaimed many hard-fought battles, just winding their way towards the salt lick from behind a small knoll that stood between us and Mount Tarrengower.

Mr. Brown coolly drew his revolver, and apparently calculated the distance.

“What do you intend to do?” I asked, seating myself on the pack, and watching his proceedings.

“Have a mutton chop for supper, if those animals come within pistol shot.  Keep quiet, and don’t alarm them, and you will see how delicate I will do the trick.”

I was too hungry to make many objections, and therefore followed the advice of my friend.  On came the flock, the old patriarch at their head, unsuspicious of danger, and thinking probably of the rich treat which he was about to confer upon his numerous harem, by allowing them to partake of a bit of salt grass at the close of the day.

We were so well concealed by the trunks of the trees, that the sheep, generally wild and suspicious of strangers, did not discover us until the old ram was within about two rods of our hiding place; then he suddenly stopped, and snuffed the air as though he smelled an enemy, and the flock, governed by his actions and motions, likewise halted and looked around, to discover the cause of the commotion.

For a few seconds all was quiet, with the exception of a number of bleating lambs in the rear, and just as the ram was once more elevating his head to scent the air, Mr. Brown fired.  A fine fat ewe sprang into the air, and then rolled over and over in the agonies of death.

“A good shot!” cried Mr. Brown, but hardly were the words from his mouth when there was a rushing sound, and before I could interfere, or raise my voice in warning, the old patriarch had charged past me.  My comrade saw his danger, but disdained to use his revolver in such a quarrel, or even to fly.  He probably thought that he could seize the ram by his horns, and arrest his career without a violent effort, but if such were his intentions he was bitterly disappointed, for the old patriarch possessed the strength and power of a dozen ordinary sheep, and possibly had battled with many bushrangers for the preservation of his flock from decimation.

On rushed the ram with the speed of a race horse.  He passed me without notice, his eyes glowing like coals of fire, and every muscle in his neck stretched for the encounter.  His wives did not offer to fly, but stood watching the result of the old fellow’s charge, evidently quite confident of the ultimate result.