American Big-Game Hunting 
creasing thirst provoked by an empty demi- 
john. My cup of happiness, unlike the cook’s, 
had never been emptied, but it was far from 
full. I had not shot an elk. They were all 
round us, and had been for a fortnight. I 
had hunted them alone and in company. 
I had had many chances at young bulls, 
but had hitherto held my hand, waiting in 
vain for a good head. We had plenty of 
meat—a condition of things forbidding use- 
less slaughter. Spike bulls and cows were 
therefore sacred, and seemed to know it, for 
they gave me every chance to take advan- 
tage of their youthful inexperience or sex. 
Twice I had stumbled on a large band in 
timber. I had heard the musical challenges 
of the young bulls answered by the patriarch, 
with his squealing whistle ending in a deep 
grunt of conscious superiority. The young 
bulls were provokingly plentiful — but the pa- 
triarchs always invisible. Ofcourse every other 
member of the outfit saw the “biggest bull 
yet” whenever I happened to be absent. Each 
of my three friends had a good head or two 
to his score, and their accounts were closed. 
Our time was nearly up, and I began to de- 
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