mounting I slipped along quietly some seventy 

 yards, when I jumped two spike-horns, only stop- 

 ping to look back, as they frequently do, out of 

 curiosity. Crack! went the rifle, and down came 

 one spike-horn. The other was, to use the local 

 expression, rolling his freight up a side hill. 

 Again the rifle arid he rolled it down grade. 

 Now, whether this was purely a matter of luck 

 or good shooting was of no great moment to me 

 then. For we needed two deer, and we had them 

 and could turn our attention to larger if not more 

 worthy game. 



Mounted one day on jennets, we determined 

 to inspect and hunt a likely-looking stretch of 

 country to the south. The weather had turned 

 very cold during the past week, and at this al- 

 titude, freezing hard every night as it did, made 

 fresh tracks difficult to discern. The day had 

 been an uneventful one, and we were wending our 

 way toward camp, evening being close at hand. 

 Nearing the top of a small saddle, we suddenly 

 stopped without word or sign, for our eyes had 

 simultaneously met the object of our search. I 

 drew my rifle from the scabbard, pressed back 

 the hammer, but for a moment held my fire. The 

 unexpected scene that lay before me surpassed 

 anything I had ever witnessed in all my experi- 



