A MOUNTAIN TRAGEDY. 



A. L. VERMILYA. 



It is a beautiful afternoon in the pic- 

 turesque and rugged West. The air is 

 clear, and cliff and gorge, rock and rivulet, 

 make a picture such as no artist can ever 

 hope successfully to transfer to canvas, 

 and such as can be seen only in this en- 

 chanted land. Here Nature reigns su- 

 preme and undisturbed. 



On a smooth rock, at the foot of a 

 trail which winds its devious way far up 

 among the mountains, a hunter is reclin- 

 ing. His buckskin garments and general 

 air and make-up denote that he is a well- 

 seasoned denizen of the West, a rover of 

 mount and plain. His rifle stands at his 

 side, in a cleft of the rock, and his only 

 business, at present, appears to consist in 

 enjoying the autumn sunshine and the ma- 

 jestic mountain scenery. 



Anon he glances dreamily up the trail, 

 when his eyes open wider as he discerns, 

 far above him, something of interest. Now 

 he sits upright, and looks intently. High 

 up among the rocks, and so far away that 

 he appears but a pigmy, a man stands a 

 short distance from a bend in the trail, 

 and close to a towering mass of jagged 

 rocks with paths running among them in 

 all directions. His gun is at his shoulder, 

 and he appears to be waiting for some- 

 thing. Perhaps he has seen some animal, 

 and is waiting to catch another glimpse of 

 it as it rounds the bend in the pass, on its 

 downward way. 



The hunter down the trail is really in- 

 terested now. He takes a small field glass 

 from his pocket, and standing up, surveys 

 the scene above him. 



"Great rattlesnakes !" he ejaculates, after 

 gazing steadily up the pass for several 

 seconds ; "what's the matter with the 

 chap ? Is he glued or froze to the rocks, 

 with his gun p'intin' at nothin'? One of 

 them tenderfeet, I reckon, that's stoppin' 

 down at Baker's. Don't s'pose the cuss 

 can tell a coyote from a sand peet or a 

 broncho from a sufferin' Sam. There's 

 game, too, plenty. Grizzly, sure as 

 shootin' !" In his excitement, he takes a 

 few steps forward, the glass still at his 

 eyes. 



Around the bend slowly shuffles the 

 great bear, and then comes the faint re- 

 port of a rifle from the rocks above. The 

 grizzly rears on his haunches, while his 



huge paws claV at his breast. He is hit 

 hard. In an instant he catches sight of 

 his enemy, and dropping on all fours, he 

 makes a rush at the shooter. The man 

 bravely stands his ground, and twice 

 raises his rifle to his shoulder as if about 

 to shoot, but does not do so. He seems 

 bewildered, and just as the wounded and 

 infuriated beast is almost on him, the man 

 turns and flees, carrying his rifle with him. 

 Man and beast quickly disappear among the 

 rocks. 



"Well, by the jumpin' Jews!" exclaims 

 the man in buckskin, taking the glass from 

 his eyes ; "of all the fool tenderfeet I have 

 ever happened to run across, this one beats 

 the world, with several smaller planets 

 throwed in for good measure. He is surely 

 a green image. Must have been kinder 

 paralyzed like. 'Mazin' bad fluster a man 

 must be in to wound a grizzly an' then 

 jest stand around till the varmint is plum 

 ready to chaw 'im. Ought to pumped 

 lead into the critter long as it held out. 

 Don't pay to take no chances on that sort 

 o' game. From the East, prob'ly, an' 

 thought a grizzly a mild sort o' beast. 

 Bet it kinder surprised him when he see 

 the varmint pacin' along to'rd him with his 

 war paint on. Dash bust a fool, anyway !" 



It is mid-afternoon by the time the 

 Westerner reaches the spot where occurred 

 the peculiar battle between the tenderfoot 

 and the grizzly. "Must have scairt the chap 

 clean across the divide," he says, as he 

 moves along. Now, he rounds a sharp 

 angle in the trail, and with one swift 

 glance his eyes take in the scene of a 

 tragedy. A few feet apart lay man and 

 bear — both dead. The man was chewed 

 and clawed in a shocking manner. 



"Holy pilgrims !" exclaims the hunter, 

 "the poor chap got his game, but not quick 

 enough. One bullet won't do for a grizzly. 

 Why didn't he shoot him up more?" 



He picks up the rifle, a repeater, and as 

 he gazes at it, a look of anger and disgust 

 spreads over his face. A shell is tightly 

 wedged in the action, rendering the weapon 

 absolutely useless. With an imprecation, 

 he raises the rifle above his head, then 

 hurls it far down among the rocks. It is 

 not a Winchester or a Savage; it is the 

 other kind. 



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