THE GAME OF THE HIGH PEAKS: THE WHITE GOAT ^9 



twigs of the bushes under which the paths passed ; in the early fall the 

 coat is shorter and less handsome. 



Although these game paths were so deeply worn, they yet showed very 

 little fresh goat sign ; in fact, we came across the recent trails of but two of 

 the animals we were after. One of these we came quite close to, but never 

 saw it, for we must have frightened it by the noise we made ; it certainly, 

 to judge by its tracks, which we followed for a long time, took itself straight 

 out of the country. The other I finally got, after some heart-breaking work 

 and a complicated series of faults committed and misfortunes endured. 



I had been, as usual, walking and clambering over the mountains all 

 day long, and in mid-afternoon reached a great slide, with half-way across 

 it a tree. Under this I sat down to rest, my back to the trunk, and had 

 been there but a few minutes when my companion, the Missourian, sud- 

 denly whispered to me that a goat was coming down the slide at its edge, 

 near the woods. I was in a most uncomfortable position for a shot. Twist- 

 ing my head round, I could see the goat waddling down-hill, looking just 

 like a handsome tame billy, especially when at times he stood upon a 

 stone to glance around, with all four feet close together. I cautiously tried 

 to shift my position, and at once dislodged some pebbles, at the sound of 

 which the goat sprang promptly up on the bank, his whole mien changing 

 into one of alert, alarmed curiosity. He was less than a hundred yards 

 off, so I risked a shot, all cramped and twisted though I was. But my 

 bullet went low ; I only broke his left fore-leg, and he disappeared over 

 the bank like a flash. We raced and scrambled after him, and the Missou- 

 rian, an excellent tracker, took up the bloody trail. It went along the 

 hill-side for nearly a mile, and then turned straight up the mountain, the 

 Missourian leading with his long, free gait, while I toiled after him at a 

 dogged trot. The trail went up the sharpest and steepest places, skirting 

 the cliffs and precipices. At one spot I nearly came to grief for good and 

 all, for in running along a shelving ledge, covered with loose slates, one 

 of these slipped as I stepped on it, throwing me clear over the brink. 

 However, I caught in a pine top, bounced down through it, and brought 

 up in a balsam with my rifle all right, and myself unhurt except for the 

 shaking. I scrambled up at once and raced on after my companion, whose 

 limbs and wind seemed alike incapable of giving out. This work lasted 

 for a couple of hours. 



The trail came into a regular game path and grew fresher, the goat 

 having stopped to roll and wallow in the dust now and then. Suddenly, 

 on the top of the mountain, we came upon him close up to us. He had just 

 risen from rolling and stood behind a huge fallen log, his back barely 



