HUNTING THE GRISLY. 89 



and camped in a little open spot by the side 

 of a small, noisy brook, with crystal water. 

 The place was carpeted with soft, wet, green 

 moss, dotted red with the kinnikinnic berries, 

 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 silently 

 over the pine needles, across a succession of 

 slight ridges separated by narrow, shallow 

 valleys. The forest here was composed 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 mountains 

 there was yet plenty of light by which to shoot, 

 but it was fading rapidly. 



At last, as I was thinking of turning towards 

 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 

 off with his head down. He was quartering 

 to me, and I fired into his flank, the bullet, as 

 I afterwards found, ranging forward and 

 piercing one lung. At the shot he uttered a 

 loud, moaning grunt and plunged forward at 



