MY FIRST TRIP TO THE ROCKIES 157 



camp, as the western sun was dipping below the 

 horizon, at peace with all mankind, and with half 

 a haunch of fat venison tied behind Fox's saddle, for 

 Spotty strongly objected to carry any kind of game. 

 So our first bull elk died. Surely these are moments 

 worth living for hunting recollections that never 

 fade from the mind ! 



We had a cheery supper in camp that night. The 

 weather was fine, and we made our beds on the 

 prairie beneath the starry sky, having come in too 

 late to put up the tents. Thereby hangs an incident 

 of my tale. Next morning at sunrise we were 

 awakened by the dulcet tones of our chef de cuisine, 

 and, rising from the blankets, I saw before me one of 

 the prettiest sights imaginable. A large herd of elk 

 were just entering the mountains. They stood grouped 

 about 200 yards distant, chiefly cows and calves, their 

 tawny-yellow bodies lit up by the rising sun just 

 showing over the horizon, stared for a moment at our 

 camp, and then made their way leisurely into the 

 timbered hills. That particular herd contained no 

 bull worth the killing. The old bulls in August 

 eschew female society, and prefer to run alone. But 

 I shall never forget the beauty of that picture of the 

 sunlit mountain distance, with its graceful living fore- 

 ground of elk. 



After breakfast we started on our first day's regular 

 hunting, Frank Earnest and I in one direction, Tom 

 Bate and his hunter, Jack Roberts, in another. Frank 

 and I rode over the range through a beautiful suc- 

 cession of gamy-looking hills and wooded valleys, 

 saw plenty of elk-sign, an odd deer or two, and some 

 antelope, but no game worth the killing until well on 

 in the afternoon. 



