NORTHERN GAME TRAILS 363 



track we had seen in the snow belonged to an 

 old silver-tip who was spending his last few days 

 before denning up, digging ground hogs on the 

 bare sides of the range to the north of us. Fur- 

 ther we argued that, weather permitting, we 

 stood a reasonable chance of "meeting him," as 

 Mac put it. We would have at least one more 

 try, we agreed, if the storm would cease, and on 

 the third day it did. 



Early on the morning that followed Mac and 

 I rode to the north. Even the horses shrank 

 from the incalculably cold wind that swept over 

 the endless sheeted procession of snow. The end 

 had come. This was the last day of the hunt. 

 Now or never, I told myself, as I jammed down 

 my hat and threw a glance at the old rifle. The 

 morning was still young when we rode to the 

 edge of the vast basin. Dismounting we looked 

 down into the lower world, dark, forsaken and 

 empty. Nothing seemed astir, but a great ghost- 

 gray bird that floated over the thickets far below. 

 It was a giant snowy owl, an estray from the 

 polar north, driven down, no doubt, by storm and 

 famine, from his bleak arctic Avastes. Straight 

 across on the white, scarred face of the mountain 

 the rays of the morning sun were crawling. 

 Swiftly the horizon leaped into blaze, which 



