That day I went with Yellow Bird on a hunt for Rocky Mountain sheep. Our camp needed meat; and, in the fall, mountain mutton was the most delicious of all the game animals. We rode along an old Indian trail, westward through the valley, where the golden brown of ripened [[112]]grasses covered the meadows; and came to a dark forest where the ground was fragrant with pine needles. We followed the shores of a chain of lakes, to a place where high mountains came close together on both sides of the valley. Yellow Bird was leading with rifle across his saddle. Finally he turned and signed with his hands, “Sheep on that mountain.” High up, above timber-line, I saw a band of brownish gray animals with white rump patches. They were feeding on a grassy slope which extended to slide rock, near the summit of the mountain. I counted sixteen sheep—ewes and small rams. Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, they took alarm and ran swiftly along the mountain side. Then a big grizzly appeared against the sky-line, coming across the shoulder of the mountain. He, too, was stalking the sheep. He ran with head up, and I could see his long silvery hair rolling in waves.
Yellow Bird was excited and eager for a shot. So we tied our horses and made ready to climb, leaving our coats and everything we could spare. After a drink of cold water at a stream, we started with our rifles and cartridge belts, taking our course along the mountain side, so that the grizzly might not get our scent. We struggled through tangled thickets of evergreens, and windfalls where dead trees lay piled across each other in all directions. The forest seemed vast and lonely; everywhere silence, not a breath of air stirred. We climbed the southern slope in the glare of the midday sun. I was drenched with sweat and my breath came fast.
Near the edge of the woods at timber-line, we were careful not to snap a twig or make a branch rustle, expecting any moment to meet the grizzly. At every sound or movement in the trees, I felt a sudden thrill and peered through the forest with senses alert. But we did not meet the bear, to Yellow Bird’s chagrin. He was a reckless fellow, always eager for a fight and confident of his skill with a rifle.
SUNRISE AT OUR HUNTING CAMP IN THE ROCKIES
[[113]]
We crossed the shale to the sky-meadow, where we saw the sheep; and to stalk them went towards the summit of the mountain, that we might approach from above.
Big Horn are the most difficult to approach of all big game. They are wary and quick-sighted; the slightest sound startles them; and they are off like a flash. No animal is their superior in climbing; even in the most difficult places they never slip, nor make a misstep.
We hunted up-wind, keeping out of sight, using crags and boulders for shelter. When we came to a precipitous part of the mountain, we went slowly and carefully, to keep from making a false step and breaking our necks. We scrambled along the narrow ledges and rock-shelves, clinging to cold buttresses and to scant projections of the cliffs, careful not to start a loose stone or any crumbling shale.
At last we came to an overhanging crest. We crawled to the edge and peeped over the cliff. Below, on a narrow ledge, stood a ewe sheep. She was at the top of a precipice, with a view of the entire mountain side. By this time the sun was low in the sky. Now was our only chance for meat; we had to get down the cliffs, while there was still light to see the way. Yellow Bird fired and struck the sheep behind the shoulder. She jumped to a lower shelf, where my bullet finished her. The carcass fell over the precipice and down the barefaced cliffs; the hollow reverberations of its fall echoed from the mountain walls. It struck slide-rock and rolled over and over, going at terrible speed, until it landed against a big boulder far down the mountain—our fate if we should slip or make a false step.