HUNTING THE GRISLY. 83 



the crack he ran off at speed, making no 

 sound, but the thick spatter of blood splashes, 

 showing clear on the white snow, betrayed the 

 mortal nature of the wound. For some min- 

 utes I followed the trail ; and then, topping a 

 ridge, I saw the dark bulk lying motionless in 

 a snow drift at the foot of a low rock-wall, 

 down which he had tumbled. 



The usual practice of the still-hunter who 

 is after grisly is to toll it to baits. The hun- 

 ter either lies in ambush near the carcass, or 

 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 upwards. 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 whisky- jacks, with bold mien 

 and fearless bright eyes, hopped and fluttered 



