86 HUNTING THE GRISLY. 



position to the swaying end of a pine branch, 

 chattering and screaming. Flocks of cross- 

 bills, with wavy flight and plaintive calls, flew 

 to a small mineral lick near by, where they 

 scraped the clay with their queer little beaks. 



As the westering sun sank out of sight be- 

 yond the mountains these sounds of bird-life 

 gradually died away. Under the great pines 

 the evening was still with the silence of prime- 

 val desolation. The sense of sadness and 

 loneliness, the melancholy of the wilderness, 

 came over me like a spell. Every slight noise 

 made my pulses throb as I lay motionless on 

 the rock gazing intently into the gathering 

 gloom. I began to fear that it would grow 

 too dark to shoot before the grisly came. 



Suddenly and without warning, the great 

 bear stepped out of the bushes and trod across 

 the pine needles with such swift and silent 

 footsteps that its bulk seemed unreal. It was 

 very cautious, continually halting to peer 

 around ; and once it stood up on its hind legs 

 and looked long down the valley towards the 

 red west. As it reached the carcass I put a 

 bullet between its shoulders. It rolled over, 

 while the woods resounded with its savage 

 roaring. Immediately it struggled to its feet 

 and staggered off ; and fell again to the next 

 shot, squalling and yelling. Twice this was 

 repeated ; the brute being one of those bears 

 which greet every wound with a great outcry, 

 and sometimes seem to lose their feet when hit 

 although they will occasionally fight as 

 savagely as their more silent brethren. In 



