ELK HUNTING IN THE SHOSHONE MOUNTAINS. 



W. A. Valentine, M. D. 



One day, towards the latter part of 

 September, 1892, two weary and 

 disappointed hunters stood on a 

 plateau in the Shoshone mountains, on the 

 headwaters of one of the tributaries of 

 Snake river, tightening their saddle 

 girths and deploring a succession of 

 misfortunes. 



One of these men was the hunter- 

 guide, Elwood Hofer; the other was the 

 writer hereof, who had gone from New 

 York to Wyoming for a vacation, and, 

 an elk head. Our party of three, with 

 three guides, cook and extra man had 

 been over two weeks in game country, 

 but had seen no elk. The Indians had 

 been before us on their Fall hunt, and 

 apparently had driven the elk out of 

 the whole Snake river country. We had 

 moved over to Pacific creek and on 

 Monday morning each sportsman had 

 taken his guide and struck out for elk, 

 leaving the home camp in care of June, 

 the extra man, and the cook. 



Hofer and 1 had covered a great deal 

 of country in our search for game, but 

 until this Friday afternoon I had had no 

 chance to win my elk head. We had 

 put in a day of hard mountain climbing, 

 hunting, and a long, and fatiguing stalk 

 for a bull elk, who in the end only offered 

 a long shot which hit without disabling 

 him, and now, late in the afternoon, 

 we were back with our horses preparing 

 to start for our temporary camp, about 

 fifteen miles away. We were sorely dis- 

 appointed, as we felt that the next morn- 

 ing we ought to return to the home 

 camp, and here we had just found what 

 promised to be good elk country. As 

 we were about putting our rifles in 

 the slings that hung on our saddles, 

 Hofer remarked that to avoid accidents 

 in going down hill, where we usually led 

 our horses, he preferred to have rifles 

 unloaded ; so I took out my cartridge, 

 mildly protesting that as I used a single 

 shot rifle I preferred to carry it loaded 

 as long as there was any chance of see- 

 ing game. 



Our route lay across a succession of 



ridges or spurs from the mountains, and 

 gullys, but we had not ridden more than 

 a hundred yards when we heard that 

 most thrilling of all sounds, to the hunt- 

 er's ear, a bull elk's whistle. Pulling up 

 and looking about we saw him on a 

 ridge in front of us and about four hun- 

 dred yards away, coming down a game 

 trail. Waiting until he passed behind 

 some bushes I dismounted and at Hofer's 

 suggestion, ran forward to the brow of 

 the ridge, hoping to get a shot at the elk 

 in the gully. I found, however, that he 

 had headed down the gulch, evidently 

 intending to go around the point of the 

 ridge on which we were ; so there was 

 nothing for me to do but to take our side 

 of the ridge and run down in the hope 

 of getting near enough for a shot in case 

 he crossed. Down the ridge I sprinted 

 in what seemed to me mighty good get- 

 over-the-ground time, judging by my 

 shortness of breath, until I looked back 

 and saw Hofer motioning energetically 

 to me to go on. Thinking the elk must 

 be making the better time, I put on all 

 the force I had left and ran as far as I 

 could. Panting desperately I sat down 

 and attempted to get my breathing ap- 

 paratus in condition for a shot, as I saw 

 the trail led over the end of the ridge 

 about a hundred yards away. 



Just as I began to feel that I could 

 hold steady enough for an aim, the bull 

 walked over the ridge offering a splendid 

 broadside shot. What a superb animal 

 he was ! He looked " the monarch of the 

 mountains " sure enough. How exult- 

 ingly I sized up his magnificent head 

 and antlers, as I took a careful aim be- 

 hind his shoulder and pressed the trig- 

 ger of my trusty old Sharps. 



Did you ever find yourself in a position 

 where no words in the English language 

 could express your feelings ? Well, that 

 was my predicament at that moment, for 

 instead of the sharp, clear report of the 

 rifle there was the hollow click of the 

 hammer through an empty barrrel. 



In the excitement of the moment I 

 had forgotten to load my rifle. It would 



