TWENTY YEARS IN THE ROCKIES. 147 



I now turned to the wounded bull. It had stumbled 

 over a log and fallen into a little ravine, containing about 

 three feet of snow. I walked up and took him by the new 

 horns that were beginning to show. They were about four 

 inches long and were still soft, and, as he made very little 

 resistance, I stood in front of him on a small log and thrust 

 my knife into his throat. While he was struggling to get 

 out of my reach, the log I was standing upon rolled over and 

 I fell beside him, almost under his feet. My feelings at that 

 moment were not agreeable, for the blood spurted into my 

 face and all over me, and he tried to stamp me with his 

 forefeet. Had not his back been broken, no doubt he 

 would have beaten me to death. 



I cleaned and carved my elks, hung them upon trees, 

 and went to camp hungry as a wolf, covered with blood. 

 Steward was not there, as he had promised. The next day 

 came and went,, but he did not appear. I had a large load of 

 the choicest cuts and did not dare to kill any more game, 

 but, with only my gun for company, I wandered over the 

 hills, watching the deer and elks feeding or basking in the 

 sunshine. I was so lonely that my own shadow was a wel- 

 come sight. 



On the fourth day after Steward's departure, I was 

 favored with a visit from three Indians. I met them at a 

 place where I had killed a young elk calf. They examined 

 the calf, said it was very nice, and one of them asked if he 

 might take it to his squaw, so I gave it to him. Immedi- 

 ately he squatted down, and broke its bones just below the 

 knees with his meat axe, then forced the marrow out of 

 them with a stick and swallowed it greedily, now and then 

 taking time to grunt "itsic" (good.) Before leaving,, they 

 asked me where I was camping, and, without thinking of 

 the probable consequences, I told them. 



