Hunting the Grisly 103 



of a small, noisy brook, with crystal water. 

 The place was carpeted with soft, wet, green 

 moss, dotted red with the kinnikinnic ber- 

 ries, 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 si- 

 lently over the pine needles, across a succes- 

 sion of slight ridges separated by narrow, 

 shallow valleys. The forest here was com- 

 posed 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 moun- 

 tains there was yet plenty of light by which 

 to shoot, but it was fading rapidly. 



At last, as I was thinking of turning toward 

 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 



