Thirty-two feral sheep worked away into the junipers. A black ram with a full curl of horn stepped out from behind a tree. Instead of coming up our canyon, the sheep fed through the sage and bitterbrush and over the next ridge. “That black one is a good one,” Todd whispered. “There’s a buckskin-colored one in the group too, but I saw a white ram. That’s the one we’re looking for.”
