Flocks of cross-bills, with
wavy flight and plaintive calls, flew to a small mineral lick near by,
where they scraped the clay with their queer little beaks.
As the westering sun sank out of sight beyond the mountains these sounds
of bird-life gradually died away. Under the great pines the evening was
still with the silence of primeval desolation. The sense of sadness and
loneliness, the melancholy of the wilderness, came over me like a spell.
Every slight noise made my pulses throb as I lay motionless on the rock
gazing intently into the gathering gloom. I began to fear that it would
grow too dark to shoot before the grisly came.
Suddenly and without warning, the great bear stepped out of the bushes
and trod across the pine needles with such swift and silent footsteps
that its bulk seemed unreal. It was very cautious, continually halting
to peer around; and once it stood up on its hind legs and looked long
down the valley towards the red west. As it reached the carcass I put a
bullet between its shoulders.
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