148 The Wilderness Hunter 



when begging. I know no other horned animal that 

 ever takes this position. 



As I fired he rolled backward, slipped down the 

 grassy slope, and tumbled over the brink of the 

 cliff, while the other two, a she and a kid, after a 

 moment's panic-struck pause, and a bewildered rush 

 in the wrong direction, made off up a little rocky 

 gully, and were out of sight in a moment. To my 

 chagrin when I finally reached the carcass, after a 

 tedious and circuitous climb to the foot of the cliff, 

 I found both horns broken off. 



It was late in the afternoon, and we clambered 

 down to the border of a little marshy alpine lake, 

 which we reached in an hour or so. Here we made 

 our camp about sunset, in a grove of stunted spruces, 

 which furnished plenty of dead timber for the fire. 

 There were many white-goat trails leading to this 

 lake, and from the slide rock roundabout we heard 

 the shrill whistling of hoary rock-woodchucks, and 

 the querulous notes of the little conies two of 

 the sounds most familiar to the white-goat hunter. 

 These conies had gathered heaps of dried plants, 

 and had stowed them carefully away for winter use 

 in the cracks between the rocks. 



While descending the mountain we came on a lit- 

 tle pack of snow grouse or mountain ptarmigan, 

 birds which, save in winter, are always found above 

 timber line. They were tame and fearless, though 

 hard to make out as they ran among the rocks, 



