MY FIRST TRIP TO THE ROCKIES 167 



sudden as it was unexpected. I grabbed hastily, and, 

 of course, in the wrong pocket, for a cartridge. I 

 could not take my eyes from the splendid brute in 

 front of me, retreating rapidly, but gracefully, to the 

 harbour of the pine-trees so close at hand. Finally, 

 jamming a cartridge into the breech of the rifle, I 

 just had time, and no more, for a long snapshot, as 

 the old bull, with spreading antlers well laid back on 

 his haunches, disappeared into the thick cover. 



I never saw him again, though the grand head he 

 carried dwelt long in my memory. Meanwhile the 

 wounded coyote had made good his retreat. But my 

 cup of disappointment was not yet full. Riding 

 slowly back to camp that night, enjoying the friendly 

 solace of a pipe, I came across a small band of elk, 

 feeding quietly in a convenient hollow in the forest. 

 They were accompanied by a fair-sized bull, though 

 nothing like the patriarch I had just seen and missed. 

 Leaving my horse, I this time accomplished a scien- 

 tific crawl, and obtained an easy shot at 100 yards. 

 It was getting dusk, and I must have sighted a thought 

 too high, as the sequel will show. At the crack of 

 the rifle the bull fell prone, legs kicking in the air. 

 For the moment my bloodthirstiness was appeased. 

 I went back to my horse and proceeded to lead him 

 down to the prostrate bull, who had fallen close to 

 a thick belt of young pine-trees and was still kicking 

 spasmodically. As I came within 10 yards or so, he 

 suddenly regained his legs, and forthwith plunged 

 headlong into the thick timber before I could drop 

 rein and raise my rifle. He vanished from my ken, 

 and I have never set eyes on him since. He had 

 been simply creased, or shot too high, just above the 

 backbone. The effect of such a shot paralyzes for 



