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We kept as still as statues.
Nimrod said. "There is your chance."
"Yes," I echoed, "here is my chance."
We waited until they passed into the trees again. Then we dismounted. Nimrod handed me the rifle, saying:
"There are seven shots in it. I will stay behind with the horses."
I took the gun without a word and crept down the mountain side, keeping under cover as much as possible. The sunset quiet surrounded me; the deadly quiet of but one idea—to creep upon that elk and kill him—possessed me. That gradual painful drawing nearer to my prey seemed a lifetime. I was conscious of nothing to the right, or to the left of me; only of what I was going to do. There were pine woods and scrub brush and more woods. Then, suddenly, I saw him standing by the river about to drink. I crawled nearer until I was within one hundred and fifty yards of him, when at the snapping of a twig he raised his head with its crown of branching horn. He saw nothing, so turned again to drink.