96 Hunting the Grisly 



approaches it stealthily when he thinks the 

 bear is at its meal. 



One day while camped near the Bitter Root 

 Mountains in Montana I found that a bear 

 had been feeding on the carcass of a moose 

 which lay some five miles from the little open 

 glade in which my tent was pitched, and I 

 made up my mind to try to get a shot at it 

 that afternoon. I stayed in camp till about 

 three o'clock, lying lazily back on the bed of 

 sweet-smelling evergreen boughs, watching the 

 pack ponies as they stood under the pines on 

 the edge of the open, stamping now and then, 

 and switching their tails. The air was still, 

 the sky a glorious blue; at that hour in the 

 afternoon even the September sun was hot. 

 The smoke from the smouldering logs of the 

 camp fire curled thinly upward. Little chip- 

 munks scuttled out from their holes to the 

 packs, which lay in a heap on the ground, and 

 then scuttled madly back again. A couple 

 of drab-colored whiskey-jacks, with bold mien 

 and fearless bright eyes, hopped and fluttered 

 round, picking up the scraps, and uttering an 

 extraordinary variety of notes, mostly dis- 

 cordant; so tame were they that one of them lit 

 on my outstretched arm as I half dozed, bask- 

 ing in the sunshine. 



