American Big-Game Hunting 



creasing thirst provoked by an empty demi- 

 john. My cup of happiness, unlike the cook's, 

 had never been emptied, but it was far from 

 full. I had not shot an elk. They were all 

 round us, and had been for a fortnight. I 

 had hunted them alone and in company. 

 I had had many chances at young bulls, 

 but had hitherto held my hand, waiting in 

 vain for a good head. We had plenty of 

 meat — a condition of things forbidding use- 

 less slaughter. Spike bulls and cows were 

 therefore sacred, and seemed to know it, for 

 they gave me every chance to take advan- 

 tage of their youthful inexperience or sex. 

 Twice I had stumbled on a larofe band in 

 timber. I had heard the musical challenges 

 of the young bulls answered by the patriarch, 

 with his squealing whistle ending in a deep 

 grunt of conscious superiority. The young 

 bulls were provokingly plentiful — but the pa- 

 triarchs always invisible. Of course every other 

 member of the outfit saw the ** biggest bull 

 yet" whenever I happened to be absent. Each 

 of my three friends had a good head or two 

 to his score, and their accounts were closed. 

 Our time was nearly up, and I began to de- 



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