290 BIG GAME FIELDS 



Strange how the killing of a fine trophy ban- 

 ishes hunger, cold and weariness. "Bear, he no 

 hear yo shoot, he way down below, we go right on 

 an' get him," continued Mac. Hurrying on down 

 the mountain we passed by the fallen moose. I 

 paused only long enough to take one good look 

 at him. A fine head and fresh meat, almost a 

 little too easy though, I was saying to myself, as 

 I hurried on after Mac; for I had already learned 

 that if I did not keep up, it would seem almost 

 impossible to close the gap between us. 



This is my lucky day, I told myself; I never 

 felt so fine, spite of the icy wind, and drifting 

 bits of snow. My gun felt light and I seemed to 

 be moving along as easily as the indomitable Mac 

 himself. I even had a premonition that I was 

 going to kill one of the finest old grizzlies in the 

 country, within the next hour. 



As we were coming out of a little patch of 

 alders Mac spoke in his sign language, advising 

 me to remain still until he had carefully scanned 

 the country below\ In fact it was always his cus- 

 tom before coming out into an opening or passing 

 over any commanding point, to carefully survey 

 every scrap of country. Mac gave me the sign 

 to come on, and I might add at this point that his 

 system of signs was much more adequate than 



