448 BIG GAME OF JSTORTII AMERICA. 



Darkness, thick and impenetrable, follows. We hear 

 writhing, strnggling, and a smothered scream in the direc- 

 tion of one of the bodies, and both onr rifles are again dis- 

 charged in the direction of the sound; then all is still. 

 Another match is now struck; but the smoke hangs so 

 thick and black that we are unable to see through it. 



Returning to the mouth of the cave, an oiled rag and a 

 piece of tarred rope are discovered in a pocket. The rag 

 and rope are twisted together and set on fire, and the burn- 

 ing mass thrown far into the cave, bringing brightness 

 and light to every corner of it. We return, and find the 

 two animals dead; two balls having passed through one of 

 them, while the death of the other had been instant as the 

 result of one shot. 



Both are drawn out to the daylight, and examined with 

 great interest. One was the largest Lynx we had ever seen, 

 and would have weighed, as nearly as we could judge, about 

 fifty pounds. He was three feet long, exclusive of the tail. 

 The other Lynx was much smaller, and a female, measur- 

 ing somewhat under thirty inches, and weighing about 

 half as much as the male. Securing the pelts, we retraced 

 our steps. This ended the most exciting Lynx-chase we 

 ever had, and the most prolific of results. 



When not more than half-way back to camp, night over- 

 took us, and we lost our way in the darkness. The si)ec- 

 tacle of a pair of bosom friends, old hunters, lost on a prai- 

 rie, or even in most forests, conjures up no feelings of horror 

 in the mind of the reader. To be lost in such a forest and on 

 such mountains as these, where the snow lies from two to 

 five feet deep; the smallest tree three feet in thickness; the 

 darkness so intense that you can cut it with a knife; the 

 only sounds being the sobbing and m'oaning of the trees, 

 the distant howl of the Mountain Wolf — a savage, cold- 

 blooded, cruel beast — or the scream of the Mountain Lion, 

 the occasional " tu-hoot, tu-hoot, tu-tu-hoot" of the screech- 

 owl — is not pleasant, to say the least. Add to these the 

 knowledge that the first huge tree-trunk you come to may 

 harbor beneath its roots, entombed in a bed of snow, a huge 



