Hunting the Grisly 103 



of a small, noisy brook, with crystal water. 

 The place was carpeted with soft, wet, green 

 moss, dotted red with the kinnikinnic ber 

 ries, and at its edge, under the trees where 

 the ground was dry, I threw down the buffalo 

 bed on the mat of sweet-smelling pine needles. 

 Making camp took but a moment. I opened 

 the pack, tossed the bedding on a smooth spot, 

 knee-haltered the little mare, dragged up a 

 few dry logs, and then strolled off, rifle on 

 shoulder, through the frosty gloaming, to see 

 if I could pick up a grouse for supper. 



For half a mile I walked quickly and si 

 lently over the pine needles, across a succes 

 sion of slight ridges separated by narrow, 

 shallow valleys. The forest here was com 

 posed of lodge-pole pines, which on the ridges 

 grew close together, with tall slender trunks, 

 while in the valleys the growth was more 

 open. Though the sun was behind the moun 

 tains there was yet plenty of light by which 

 to shoot, but it was fading rapidly. 



At last, as I was thinking of turning toward 

 camp, I stole up to the crest of one of the 

 ridges, and looked over into the valley some 

 sixty yards off. Immediately I caught the 

 loom of some large, dark object; and another 

 glance showed me a big grisly walking slowly 



