NORTHERN GAME TRAILS 355 



dip and borne over the endless sea of white- 

 topped peaks, came the arctic winds that bit and 

 stabbed like the driven nail. 



We rode on ; Mac had not spoken all the morn- 

 ing ; in fact we held little talk these last few days. 

 His expression was grave, serious; had we dog- 

 team and snow-shoes we could have laughed at 

 it all. The time had long since come to depart, 

 but that outer garment of a grizzly I had not. 

 Soon the bear would begin their long winter 

 sleep and then all hope would vanish. 



Mac was holding out one hand, thumb down, 

 the signal to dismount, which we both did. What 

 a print it was, made that night, "My grizzly 

 bearl" I said aloud, "by all that's fair and right; 

 I have already earned him.'* Mac said just one 

 word as we took up the trail: "Mebbe." 



For a quarter of a mile it led over the ridge, 

 then took a long curve and doubled back. After 

 a few more twists it led directly down the steep 

 drop to the valley. Mac looked down and shook 

 his head. "We stay here two hours and watch 

 with glasses," he suggested, for he thought the 

 bear was down in the covert and might emerge 

 at any time, and by watching from this point of 

 vantage we could make a good stalk if he ap- 

 peared. 



