124 The Wilderness Hunter. 



The old billy saw me at once, but evidently could not 

 quite make me out. Thereupon, gazing intently at me, 

 he rose gravely on his haunches, sitting up almost in the 

 attitude of a dog when begging. I know no other horned 

 animal that ever takes this position. 



As I fired he rolled backwards, 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 circu- 

 itous 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 fur- 

 nished 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 little 

 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 



