TEN DAYS IN MONTANA. 157 



short grass, to see if I am discovered. But no ; they are 

 still feeding, and I move on. Now I look again, and sure 

 enough one of them has seen my shadow. He has stopped 

 feeding and is looking intently at it. Now is my last chance. 

 Not a moment is to be lost. I measure the ground with my 

 eye quickly and see that perseverance has accomplished its 

 object. I am now within a hundred and fifty yards of my 

 game. I select the largest of the two, raise on my elbows 

 the "Bodine position" and hold, not for his heart, but for 

 a larger target, his lungs, which lie just above and in front of 

 the heart. I pull, and as the voice of "old reliable" rings 

 out upon the clear morning air, I hear the bullet "spat" 

 against the tough skin of the old monarch. He lashes his 

 tail, bounds convulsively, and he and his mate break into 

 their heavy, rolling, shambling run. I put in another car- 

 tridge and give him another shot, and then another, both of 

 which I plainly hear strike him. By this time they have 

 passed behind a hill and are out of sight. I run to the top of 

 this hill, and on the way cross their trail, which I find marked 

 with blood. Yes, it is from his nostrils, too. My first shot 

 did its work well it went through his lungs and he cannot 

 go far. As I reach the top of the hill I see them standing 

 some three hundred yards beyond. 



I was now certain of the wounded bull, and turned my 

 attention to the other. The first shot hit him, and as he ran 

 I gave him two more, but although badly hurt he carried 

 away my lead. The one I first shot followed as far as he 

 could, but after running about a quarter of a mile he stopped, 

 swayed to and fro, staggered, and fell heavily to the earth. 



I walk deliberately up to the dead monarch and gaze 

 upon him in silent admiration for several minutes. This is, 

 indeed, one of the proudest moments of my life. This is 



