i9 6 The Wilderness Hunter. 



Indians. We had used up our last elk-meat that morn- 

 ing, and when we were within a couple of hours' journey 

 of our intended halting-place, Woody and I struck off on 

 foot for a hunt. Just before sunset we came on three or 

 four elk ; a spike bull stood for a moment behind some 

 thick evergreens a hundred yards off. Guessing at his 

 shoulder, I fired, and he fell dead after running a few 

 rods. I had broken the luck, after ten days of ill success. 

 Next morning Woody and I, with the packer, rode to 

 where this elk lay. We loaded the meat on a pack-horse, 

 and let the packer take both the loaded animal and our 

 own saddle-horses back to camp, while we made a hunt on 

 foot. We went up the steep, forest-clad mountain-side, and 

 before we had walked an hour heard two elk whistling 

 ahead of us. The woods were open, and quite free from 

 undergrowth, and we were able to advance noiselessly; 

 there was no wind, for the weather was still, clear, and 

 cold. Both of the elk were evidently very much excited, 

 answering each other continually ; they had probably been 

 master bulls, but had become so exhausted that their rivals 

 had driven them from the herds, forcing them to remain 

 in seclusion until they regained their lost strength. As 

 we crept stealthily forward, the calling grew louder and 

 louder, until we could hear the grunting sounds with 

 which the challenge of the nearest ended. He was in a 

 large wallow, which was also a lick. When we were still 

 sixty yards off, he heard us, and rushed out, but wheeled 

 and stood a moment to gaze, puzzled by my buckskin 

 suit. I fired into his throat, breaking his neck, and down 

 he went in a heap. Rushing in and turning, I called to 



