The place was carpeted with soft, wet, green moss, dotted red
with the kinnikinnic berries, and at its edge, under the trees where the
ground was dry, I threw down the buffalo bed on a mat of sweet-smelling
pine needles. Making camp took but a moment. I opened the pack, tossed
the bedding on a smooth spot, knee-haltered the little mare, dragged up
a few dry logs, and then strolled off, rifle on shoulder, through the
frosty gloaming, to see if I could pick up a grouse for supper.
For half a mile I walked quickly and silently over the pine needles,
across a succession of slight ridges separated by narrow, shallow
valleys. The forest here was composed of lodge-pole pines, which on
the ridges grew close together, with tall slender trunks, while in
the valleys the growth was more open. Though the sun was behind the
mountains there was yet plenty of light by which to shoot, but it was
fading rapidly.
At last, as I was thinking of turning towards camp, I stole up to the
crest of one of the ridges, and looked over into the valley some sixty
yards off.
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