164 MY SPORTING HOLIDAYS 



above us, his horns giving him away. I sprang from 

 my horse, snatched the rifle from its sling, and 

 hastened up the hill. A few steps over the brow 

 would take me into sight and shot. 



The find was an exceedingly lucky one. We had 

 ridden casually into the shot and the wind happened 

 to be exactly right for us and wrong for the bull. 

 Then a ridiculous contretemps occurred. What 

 chance had given me with one hand was nearly but 

 not quite, as it happened taken from me by the 

 other, and through my own clumsiness. I was 

 nervously fingering the trigger and hammer of my 

 rifle, and by some mischance touched the wrong 

 hammer and trigger together. Both barrels of the 

 weapon went off, and so did the astonished bull. 

 Never before or since can I plead guilty to such a 

 mistake. 



My temper was now fairly up. Hastily grabbing 

 the rifle from the ground it had flown out of my 

 hands from the recoil I dashed, breathless, over the 

 ridge and in the direction the bull had taken, loading 

 as I went. Fortunately, the ground was fairly open, 

 and as I came over the first ridge I caught sight of 

 the bull elk standing, for a moment, on the far side 

 of a deep valley he had crossed. I remember 

 thinking what a magnificent picture he made as he 

 stood on the top of the ridge in full view, at 

 gaze, his head well up, glancing back, no doubt 

 with mingled surprise and scorn, at the puny-looking 

 intruder into his privacy. Behind him, in the dis- 

 tance, stretched the ragged peaks of his mountain 

 home. One spring over the near ridge would take 

 him into the depth of a wooded canon and out of 

 my sight. He was 200 yards or so away ; I was 



