American Big-Game Hunting 
they had left him so unceremoniously. What 
a picture he made, as he stood outlined against 
the green hillside, turning his lordly head 
slowly from side to side with watchful eye 
and spreading nostril! I had seen plenty 
as good as he, and had held my hand. But 
then it might be my last chance. He was 
only a ten-pointer. But I had gone home so 
often empty handed, and he was only seventy 
or eighty yards away. Instinctively my rifle 
went to my shoulder, my finger pressed the 
trigger, the elk plunged forward and fell on 
his knees. As he struggled to rise, I shot 
him again. And then—what are mere 
words to describe what I felt! On my left, 
beyond the accursed green tongue, went 
with a rush a great band of cows and calves. 
And in their very midst rolled the great- 
grandfather of all the elk in the State of 
Colorado,—a perfect monster! His back was 
as broad and as yellow as the Tiber in 
spring. His horns were as thick as a strong 
man’s arm, and spread like the branches of 
an oak. Across the park and up the hill he 
went, his wives and children thronging round 
him so close that I could not shoot for fear 
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