Htmting the Grisly. 299 



The usual practice of the still-hunter who is after 

 grisly is to toll it to baits. The hunter either lies in 

 ambush near the carcass, or approaches it stealthily when 

 he thinks the bear is at its meal. 



One day while camped near the Bitter Root Moun- 

 tains in Montana I found that a bear had been feedinor 

 on the carcass of a moose which lay some five miles from 

 the little open glade in which my tent was pitched, and I 

 made up my mind to try to get a shot at it that afternoon. 

 I stayed in camp till about three o'clock, lying lazily back 

 on the bed of sweet-smelling evergreen boughs, watching 

 the pack ponies as they stood under the pines on the edge 

 of the open, stamping now and then, and switching their 

 tails. The air was still, the sky a glorious blue ; at that 

 hour in the afternoon even the September sun was hot. 

 The smoke from the smouldering logs of the camp fire 

 curled thinly upwards. Little chipmunks scuttled out 

 from their holes to the packs, which lay in a heap on the 

 ground, and then scuttled madly back again. A couple 

 of drab-colored whiskey-jacks, with bold mien and fearless 

 bright eyes, hopped and fluttered round, picking up the 

 scraps, and uttering an extraordinary variety of notes, 

 mostly discordant ; so tame were they that one of them 

 lit on my outstretched arm as I half dozed, basking in 

 the sunshine. 



When the shadows began to lengthen, I shouldered 

 my rifle and plunged into the woods. At first my route 

 lay along a mountain side ; then for half a mile over a 

 windfall, the dead timber piled about in crazy confusion. 

 After that I went up the bottom of a valley by a little 



