FOREST AND STREAM 
685 
gun is raised but as soon dropped to its old 
position. 
“No, friend Centrocercus, I want nothing to 
do with you so long as any of your dusky cousins 
are to be found in the vicinity.” 
The coolness and steadiness come back; for 
the hunter must be his own dog, find and re¬ 
trieve as well as shoot. Whirr ! whirr ! whirr ! 
One, two, three, a dozen up and still rising. 
How the old gun rang out, and how clumsy 
are those fingers after six months’ rest! What 
an age it takes to get in fresh shells! Two more 
shots and the 'birds are out of range. Mark 
them down, then gather up the victims. Ah, 
it is slow finding in the damp, brown rowen, 
where there is every opportunity for conceal¬ 
ment, but four dead grouse and a cripple, that 
requires a grace shot, is not a bad beginning. 
And now the sun creeps over the mountain and 
the golden light floods the valley. Here, there, 
everywhere are -feathery forms flying swiftly 
through the air. This is the very intoxication 
of sport. From afar on the mountain Ben’s 
rifle makes faint echo to the gun. He, too, is 
enjoying this grandest morning of the year. 
Ten birds in the pockets of Shoshone’s hunting 
coat remind him of a solemn compact, entered 
into by the quartette, wherein it was stipulated 
that, until the day before the return home, no 
more game should be shot or caught than was 
required for camp use. So he turned back to 
the tent, above which the pale smoke of the 
morning fire curled lazily above the swaying 
pine tops. Ben had been back, aroused the sleep¬ 
ing beauties, and started up the hill with one 
of the mules. Even now his powerful basso 
profundo, singing one of the old songs of the 
“ ’49ers,” could be heard and soon he emerged 
from the aspen cover. Over the back of the 
mule was slung the biggest buck that we had 
seen in many a day. The wide-branched, velvety 
antlers almost touched the ground on one side 
and the sharp hoofs dragged upon the rocks on 
the other. And there were shouts of joy from 
the little camp as the aroma of coffee, slap¬ 
jacks and broiled chicken ascended heavenward. 
After breakfast we “fixed” camp, built a shade 
of aspens, thatched with willows, from the tent 
to the fireplace, and snaked a couple of loads 
of dried aspen poles for firewood. Jack and 
Dan, to pay for their laziness during the early 
morning, were assigned the bulk of the work, 
and it was in the line of their duties to clean 
and care for the game. Ben reported the canyon 
that he had visited as being full of red raspber¬ 
ries, bullberries and sarvice berries, and, while 
Shoshone rambled about the lake to secure a 
boat, the trio went berrying. Near the upper 
end of the lake the cabins of the professional 
fishermen are built. Here a boat was found; 
heavy, flat-bottomed, leaky, but it would save 
swimming after ducks and diving for trout, and 
that was all that was required. 
The heat of the afternoon was devoted to 
the regular siesta. Then Shoshone launched his 
fragile bark and, with rod and gun, Dan fur¬ 
nishing the motive power, defied the perils of 
the mighty deep. Above the shore were scores 
of hell-divers and mud-hens, but far out the 
bosom of the lake was black with countless teal 
and mallards. To shoot or fish, that was the 
question. Dan claimed to know the best fishing 
grounds, and that settled it. Over the lake we 
sped, and the dark mass of natatores parted, 
sailing gracefully just out of range and leaving 
us a clear channel. Under the shadow of the 
eastern peak Dan rested on his oars and, point¬ 
ing to a deep, dark pool, lashed into spray by 
the eternal falling of a brooklet, that leaped full 
20 feet from rock to glassy lake, said, “Cast in.” 
Shoshone arose and the grizzly-king fluttered 
over the spot indicated and dropped, as gently 
as a leaf, upon the surface of the water. No 
response to the -feathery seducer. Again. The 
same result. The third time— 
“Dan, get her stern to. I’ve got a whale.” 
“Divil a whale, but a dandy trout, old man,” 
as the boat swung around and old Salvelinus, 
as proud as he was angry, showed what seemed 
to be three feet of radiant loveliness as he en¬ 
deavored to snap the leader with his tail. 
“Pull for the middle.” 
Dan obeyed as though his life depended on 
it. The craft was clumsy and Dan did not 
know how to handle her for this kind of work; 
so the only hope of success lay in forestalling 
any latent desire on the part of Mr. Trout to 
run beneath us. Fortunately the idea did not 
enter his head. He made a good fight for the 
lilypads, but boat and reel were too much for 
his strength, and after a fifteen-minute struggle 
he allowed himself to be drawn to the net. The 
scales at the tent showed him to be a 4% pounder, 
and he was the largest fish taken during the 
trip. Dan was now fairly enthused with the 
spirit of the sport and needed no request to 
pilot the boat back to the spot where the first 
cast was made. But, alas. 
“The best laid schemes o’ mice and men 
Gang aft a-gley.” 
Trout No. 2 came up to the scratch in elegant 
form and condition, but his tactics were dia¬ 
metrically opposed to those of his predecessor. 
Under the boat he was determined to go, and 
under the boat he went, leaving to Shoshone 
a broken tip and the sad memory of a trout 
that never was caught. But another boat was 
bearing down upon the scene to take up the 
sport where we had dropped it. Ben and Jack 
had managed to secure a punt, even more leaky 
and clumsy than ours. They had a can of grubs 
and a pail of minnows, and we were contented 
to leave them, and, because it was impossible to 
fish, to try our luck with the mallards. 
Now, while the ducks were not exactly timid, 
they were unusually reserved in their manners, 
and refrained from making the acquaintance of 
strangers without the formality of an introduc¬ 
tion. They could swim as -fast as Dan could 
row, and they managed to keep about 75 yards 
from the boat. Once in a while there would be 
a little teasing flight of 20 or 30 yards, and at 
such times the gun would do its duty. But the 
distance was so great that only cripples fell, 
and these it was impossible to retrieve. At length 
the birds drifted into a little bay from which 
escape seemed impossible. Shoshone changed 
his seat to the stern and laid a dozen shells on 
the seat. Dan grasps the situation. The boat 
is planted, fair and square, in the narrow en¬ 
trance. Before us the brown, moving mass 
wedges and packs together until the inlet is cov¬ 
ered by a solid carpet of feathers. For an in¬ 
stant the birds are undetermined what to do- 
Then, with one impulse, they rise. The noise 
is as the roar of the tempest in the forest, as 
the beating of storm-tossed breakers upon a 
rocky shore. Landward for a minute and then, 
by common consent, the grand wheel is made, 
and the mass comes back toward open water. 
They are scarce 20 yards above us. The sky 
is darkened and the sound of the gun that cracks 
until eight shells are gone is lost in the rush 
of many wings. Over the lake they fly, faster 
even than the mountain gale, the ranks of the 
living closing up the gaps that ruthless powder 
and shot had made. A mile away, over by the 
western shore, they alight, and we are left alone, 
between the blue above and the blue below, to 
gather up the spoils. Nineteen plump, irridescent- 
winged beauties are stowed away in the bottom 
of the boat, and we rejoin Ben and Jack, who 
have eight 2-pounders to their credit, and are 
as ready as we for supper. 
What a supper that was! It took a long time 
to prepare it, but it paid for all trouble. Think 
of it ye purse-proud, game-loving Chicagoans, 
that pay $1.25 for the leg of a chicken killed out 
of season, and then, with true devotion to the 
cause, cinch the seller! We had cream biscuit 
and coffee, baked fish, broiled chicken, fried 
duck, fried venison, and wound up with luscious 
raspberries and cream, the meal costing, barring 
the broken tip, less than 50 cents. 
Clearly the pursuit of game on the morrow 
was out of the question. We had made an agree¬ 
ment and intended to live up to it. There was 
game enough in camp to last for several days; 
so a bear hunt was proposed. A study of the 
topographical map of Utah will show the fifty 
miles between Panguitch Lake and the Cedar 
and Kanarra settlements to be an unhabited 
mountainous region. The Pah Vaut range, that 
extends northward for 150 miles between the 
Sevier Valley and the western desert, here joins 
the main chain of the Watsatch, extending in 
an east and west direction, and the result is a 
chaotic mass of spurs and peaks. Here is the 
abode of big game—grizzlies, mountain lions, 
wildcats and deer. The grizzly is the king in 
the eyes of the hunter. As a proof of valor, 
daring and coolness, its hide is worth a dozen 
pelts of the mountain lion or a hundred big 
buck skins. To the average sportsman the kill¬ 
ing of a grizzly places the lucky man on the top 
of the ladder and makes him an equal with the 
slayer of the bighorn. Ben’s nerve and experi¬ 
ence qualified him for the post of leader of the 
expedition and he was chosen captain without 
a dissenting voice. 
Daylight found the camp deserted. At sun¬ 
rise the hunters were four miles away up among 
the higher canyons and willow-fringed marshes 
where big bear were wont to resort after 
their morning meal. If the day should prove 
clear and hot we were on the right track, but 
if cool our climb had been for naught. For¬ 
tune favored us—the fickle dame is said to favor 
the brave—and not a cloud veiled old Sol’s face. 
Deer signs were abundant, but they could not 
swerve the quartette from the path of duty. 
The canyon narrowed. The scant 10 feet between 
the little creek and narrow walls was choked 
with underbrush and we could see but 3 or 4 
yards ahead. Suddenly we came to a halt- Ev¬ 
ery man’s breath stopped for an instant and 
our hearts thumped like trip-hammers. We had 
run fair and square into the mouth of a cave 
