“Howdy, kid, here’s some doin’s. Shall we foller him?”
“Of course, Pete; what are we here for, the mountain air?” I answered.
“No,” answered Pete, in his deep, low voice, “we’re here for game,” and off he started, but slowly and with great caution. I felt impatient, but restrained myself, saying nothing and continued to follow my big guide who now moved with the most painstaking care. Not a twig broke beneath his moccasins as with panther-like step and crouching form he led me through a lot of young trees over a rocky place until we struck a small spring with a soft muddy margin. Here Pete came to a sudden halt. I asked him why he did not go on, and he pointed to a ledge of rock that ran up the mountain side diagonally with a flat, natural roadbed on top, graded like a stage road but unlike a traveled road, ending in a bunch of underwood and brush about a hundred yards ahead.
Above the ledge of the rocks was a steep declivity of loose shale sprinkled over with large and small boulders of radically different formations, and in no manner resembling the friable, uncertain bed upon which they rested.
These boulders undoubtedly showed the result of the grinding and polishing of an ancient, slow-moving glacier, but some other force had deposited them in the present position.
“He’s in tha’,” whispered Pete.
“Who, the wild mountain man?” I asked.
“No,” answered my guide, “th’ grizzly.”
“The what?” I almost shouted.
“Th’ grizzly,” answered Pete; “what do you think we’ve been following?”