A Try for Ptarmigan 135 



the bare hand slipped forth and closed upon the 

 grip. Very promptly the grip of the North 

 closed upon the steaming hand, which in five 

 seconds acknowledged the nip of the air and the 

 apparently red-hot touch of metal. Then I let 

 the mitten fall from my mouth. 



Purr-r — whir-r — bur-r ! The white forms 

 rose something like quail, but lacking the hollow 

 thunder and impetuous dash of the brave brown 

 bird. Even as the gun leaped to shoulder I real- 

 ized that the white ghosts were not going so fast, 

 but, true to old quail training, the trigger finger 

 worked as though dense cover was only two 

 yards instead of a mile away. The first bird 

 stopped — shattered — within twenty-five yards, 

 and the second not more than five yards beyond 

 its mate. Joe grunted like a bull moose, then 

 dashed ahead, and I chuckled as I remembered 

 that this was the first time he had seen a " squaw 

 gun " in action. But, instead of going direct to 

 the birds, he chased on with long strides to a 

 point sixty odd yards beyond, and stooping, picked 

 up a third ptarmigan which had managed to get 

 into line with the second. This he triumphantly 

 retrieved. Beautiful snowy things they were, 

 with the cold white sparks powdering their 

 spotless covering, and sticking in the hairlike 

 texture of the poor little snow-shoes. Two were 

 perfect for mounting, and even the shattered one 



