HUNTING THE GRISLY. g t 



struck him. He came steadily on, and in 

 another second was almost upon me. I fired 

 for his forehead, but my bullet went low, 

 entering his open mouth, smashing his lower 

 jaw and going into the neck. I leaped to one 

 side almost as I pulled trigger ; and through 

 the hanging smoke the first thing I saw was 

 his paw as he made a vicious side blow at 

 me. The rush of his charge carried him 

 past. As he struck he lurched forward, leav- 

 ing a pool of bright blood where his muzzle 

 hit the ground ; but he recovered himself and 

 made two or three jumps onwards, while I 

 hurriedly jammed a couple of cartridges into 

 the magazine, my rifle holding only four, all of 

 which I had fired. Then he tried to pull up, 

 but as he did so his muscles seemed suddenly 

 to give way, his head drooped, and he rolled 

 over and over like a shot rabbit. Each of 

 my first three bullets had inflicted a mortal 

 wound. 



It was already twilight, and I merely opened 

 the carcass, and then trotted back to camp. 

 Next morning I returned and with much labor 

 took off the skin. The fur was very fine, the 

 animal being in excellent trim, and unusually 

 bright-colored. Unfortunately, in packing it 

 out I lost the skull, and had to supply its 

 place with one of plaster. The beauty of the 

 trophy, and the memory of the circumstances 

 under which I procured it, make me value it 

 perhaps more highly than any other in my 

 house. 



This is the onlv instance in which I have 



