34 Hunting the Grisly 



ered, their crests crimsoned by the sinking 

 sun. Mixed with the eager excitement of the 

 hunter was a certain half melancholy feeling 

 as I gazed on these bison, themselves part of 

 the last remnant of a doomed and nearly van 

 ished race. Few, indeed, are the men who 

 now have, or ever more shall have, the chance 

 of seeing the mightiest of American beasts, 

 in all his wild vigor, surrounded by the tre 

 mendous desolation of his far-off mountain 

 home. 



At last, when I had begun to grow very 

 anxious lest the others should take alarm, the 

 bull likewise appeared on the edge of the 

 glade, and stood with outstretched head, 

 scratching his throat against a young tree, 

 which shook violently. I aimed low, behind 

 his shoulder, and pulled trigger. At the crack 

 of the rifle all the bison, without the momen 

 tary halt of terror-struck surprise so common 

 among game, turned and raced off at headlong 

 speed. The fringe of young pines beyond and 

 below the glade cracked and swayed as if a 

 whirlwind were passing, and in another mo 

 ment they reached the top of a very steep in 

 cline, thickly strewn with bowlders and dead 

 timber. Down this they plunged with reck 

 less speed; their surefootedness was a marvel 



