48 CAMP-FIRES IN THE CANADIAN ROCKIES 



of a precipice, and were photographing them at the risk 

 of their lives. 



Rifle and glass in hand, I sat down on a little knoll 

 a few yards above the tents, to watch a lame billy goat 

 who was quietly grazing and limping along the side of 

 a lofty ridge that came down east of us from Phillips 

 Peak. A lame wild animal in a country wherein a shot 

 had not been fired for five years, was, to all of us, a real 

 novelty; and with my glasses I watched that goat long 

 and well. It was his left foreleg that was lame, and it 

 was the opinion of the party that the old fellow was 

 suffering from an accident received on the rocks. Pos- 

 sibly a stone had been rolled down upon him, by another 

 goat. 



Suddenly sharp cries of surprise came up from the 

 camp, and I sprang up to look about. Three goats were 

 running past the tents at top speed, — a big billy, and two 

 smaller goats. 



"Hi, there! Goats! Goats!" cried Smith and 

 Norboe. 



The cook was stooping over the fire, and looking 

 under his right arm he saw the bunch charging straight 

 toward him, at a gallop. A second later, the big billy 

 was almost upon him. 



^^ Hey! You son-of-a-gun!^^ yelled Huddleston, and 

 as the big snow-white animal dashed past him he struck 

 it across the neck with a stick of firewood. The goat's 

 tracks were within six feet of the camp-fire. 



The billy ran straight through the camp, then swung 

 sharply to the left, and the last I saw of him was his 



