Looked at from above this ridge was indeed a beautiful and rugged backbone of rock, sloping from the rim, extending far out and down—­a very narrow knife-edge extended promontory, green with cedar and pine, yellow and gray with its crags and rocks.  A craggy point comparable to some of those in the Grand Canyon!  We had to study a way to get across the first deep fissures, and eventually descended far under the crest and climbed back.  It was desperately hard work, for we had so little time.  R.C. was to be at the middle of that ridge and I at the end in an hour.  Like Trojans we worked.  Some slippery pine-needle slopes we had to run across, for light quick steps were the only means of safe travel.  And that was not safe!  When we surmounted to the crest we found a jumble of weathered rocks ready to slide down on either side.  Slabs, pyramids, columns, shale, rocks of all shapes except round, lay toppling along the heaved ridge.  It seemed the whole ridge was ready to thunder down into the abyss.  Half a mile down and out from the rim we felt lost, marooned.  But there was something splendidly thrilling in our conquest of that narrow upflung edge of mountain.  Twice R.C. thought we would have to abandon further progress, but I found ways to go on.  How lonely and wild out there!  No foot save an Indian’s had ever trod those gray rocks or brown mats of pine needles.

Before we reached the dip or saddle where R.C. was to make his stand the hounds opened up far below.  The morning was perfectly still, an unusual occurrence there along the rim.  What wild music!  Then Edd’s horn pealed out, ringing melody, a long blast keen and clear, telling us above that he had started a bear.  That made us hurry.  We arrived at the head of an incline leading down to R.C.’s stand.  As luck would have it the place was ideal for a bear, but risky for a hunter.  A bear could come four ways without being seen until he was close enough to kill a man.  We hurried on.  At the saddle there was a broad bear trail with several other trails leading into it.  Suddenly R.C. halted me with a warning finger.  “Listen!”

I heard a faint clear rifle shot.  Then another, and a fainter yell.  We stood there and counted eleven more shots.  Then the bay of the hounds seemed to grow closer.  We had little time to pick and choose stands.  I had yet to reach the end of the ridge—­a task requiring seven-league boots.  But I took time to choose the best possible stand for R.C. and that was one where a bear approaching from only the east along under the ridge could surprise him.  In bad places like this we always tried to have our minds made up what to do and where to get in case of being charged by a wounded grizzly.  In this instance there was not a rock or a tree near at hand.  “R.C. you’ll have to stand your ground and kill him, that’s all,” I declared, grimly.  “But it’s quiet.  You can hear a bear coming.  If you do hear one—­wait—­and make sure your first shot lets him down.”