THE MOOSE. 233 



Drawing a fine bead against his black hide, 

 behind his shoulder and two thirds of his 

 body's depth below his shaggy withers, I 

 pressed the trigger. He neither flinched nor 

 reeled, but started with his regular ground- 

 covering trot through the spruces; yet I knew 

 he was mine, for the light blood sprang from 

 both of his nostrils, and he fell dying on his 

 side before he had gone thirty rods. 



Later in the fall I was again hunting among 

 the lofty ranges which continue towards the 

 southeast the chain of the Bitter Root, be- 

 tween Idaho and Montana. There were but 

 two of us, and we were travelling very light, 

 each having but one pack-pony and the sad- 

 dle animal he bestrode. We were high among 

 the mountains, and followed no regular trail. 

 Hence our course was often one of extreme 

 difficulty. Occasionally, we took our animals 

 through the forest near timber line, where the 

 slopes were not too steep ; again we threaded 

 our way through a line of glades, or skirted the 

 foot-hills, in an open, park country ; and now 

 and then we had to cross stretches of tangled 

 mountain forest, making but a few miles a day, 

 at the cost of incredible toil, and accomplish- 

 ing even this solely by virtue of the wonder- 

 ful docility and sure-footedness of the ponies, 

 and of my companion's skill with the axe and 

 thorough knowledge of woodcraft. 



Late one cold afternoon we came out in a 

 high alpine valley in which there was no sign of 

 any man's having ever been before us. Down 

 its middle ran a clear brook. On each side 

 was a belt of thick spruce forest, covering the 

 lower flanks of the mountains. The trees 



