ELK-HUNTING IN THE OLYMPIC MOUNTAINS. 57 



A quiver of excitement thrills your frame, old hunter 

 though you are. Then you begin to advance quickly and 

 swiftly against the wind. Recollecting yourself, you stop, 

 look around, and then advance slowly, keeping concealed 

 as much as possible. The single track has multiplied into 

 many. See, the moss has been pawed off! that log, and 

 there a little branch has been torn from a bough of that 

 birch. 



Yet you move slowly onward. Half an hour has passed 

 since you saw the foot-print by the brook-side. In all that 

 time you have not come more than a hundred yards. 

 What if you haven't? you have done just right in moving 

 slowly. Presently you reach a little opening. You stand 

 behind a tree, and look on one side; then, turning, you look 

 around the other. What was that that caught your eye? 

 Was it the shadow of a bird? No, it could not be, for it is 

 repeated again and again. Looking intently, you are able 

 to discern, through the tangled undergrowth, a small head 

 crowned with branching antlers. You move a step to the 

 right, and now it is clearly defined against the green back- 

 ground of fir-boughs; there is another, and still another. 

 Your heart gives a great bound, and then grows almost 

 still. The Elk are too far away for a sure shot, yet they 

 are within one hundred yards of being in line with you. 

 Every moment you expect to hear the shrill whistle of 

 alarm, and to see your long-sought-for quarry vanish in 

 the greenery beyond. 



Like a shadow you sink to the ground. Over the sward 

 you creep like a serpent. You grasp a stick that lays in 

 your way, but drop it like a flash. It is only a "devil's 

 war-club," old and dry, but it has left a hundred spines 

 bristling in your hand. If you are human, you will swear, 

 but softly, and with bated breath. Onward you creep. 

 The stream is reached. You spring to your feet, and swiftly 

 move, at right angles, away from the point where you saw 

 the Elk. As you move, your angle grows less. Then you 

 stop, turn around, and again, like a shadow, flit from tree 

 to tree. You fear you may have failed to mark correctly. 



