THE WATSON RIVER COUNTRY 165 



where, after crossing the canon, I could approach them. 

 Finally, when it was too late to stalk them, both rose and 

 stood rigid, looking at the country below. No sight of 

 animals in the American wilderness is quite so wonderful 

 and inspiring as the mountain ram standing erect on his 

 beloved crag and gazing at the wild country below him. 

 Soon they began to feed indifferently on the very walls of 

 the pinnacle, and then descended and walked along, pick- 

 ing at weeds and grass until they wandered a few yards 

 upward under some cliffs. Darkness was approaching 

 and I had to act. I purposely aimed four feet above the 

 larger one, in order to strike the cliffs so that he might 

 possibly run toward me, and fired. At the sound of the 

 rifle, both jumped to an alert position and looked down- 

 ward. Another shot, and the larger ram gave a spring, 

 and, followed by the smaller one, ran fifty yards along the 

 slope and over the crest. My plan had failed and I was 

 disgusted that I had not aimed straight at the ram. 



It was dusk when I reached the woods at the lower 

 end of the lake, and about dark as I neared the brook at 

 the inlet. When near the bank, I was startled to see a 

 dark, shadowy object jump into some thick brush not 

 eight feet from me, but instantly recognizing a lynx, I 

 fired at it. Advancing two steps, what did I see but the 

 dim outline of another crouching low on the ground five 

 feet in front of me, too frightened to expose itself and flee. 

 Quickly pointing my rifle at it, without even seeing the 

 sights, I fired and killed it, driving the bullet through the 

 middle of its body. After skinning it, I proceeded, fol- 

 lowing a terrace almost overhanging the shore of the lake. 



