Coming out on a ledge I spied a little, dark animal with a long tail.  He was running along the opposite promontory about three hundred yards distant.  When he stopped I took a shot at him and missed by apparently a scant half foot.

After catching our breath we climbed more and more, and still more, at last to drop on the rim, hot, wet and utterly spent.

The air was keen, cold, and invigorating.  We were soon rested, and finding our horses we proceeded along the rim westward.  Upon rounding an out-cropping of rock we flushed a flock of ptarmigan—­soft gray, rock-colored birds about the size of pheasants, and when they flew they showed beautiful white bands on their wings.  These are the rare birds that have feathered feet and turn white in winter.  They did not fly far, and several were so tame they did not fly at all.  We got our little .22 revolvers and began to shoot at the nearest bird.  He was some thirty feet distant.  But we could not hit him, and at last Fox, getting disgusted, tried to catch the bird and made him fly.  I felt relieved, for as we were getting closer and closer with every shot, it seemed possible that if the ptarmigan sat there long enough we might eventually have hit him.  The mystery was why we shot so poorly.  But this was explained by R.C., who discovered we had been shooting the wrong shells.

It was a long hard ride down the rough winding trail.  But riding down was a vastly different thing from going up.

On September third we were up at five-thirty.  It was clear and cold and the red of sunrise tinged the peaks.  The snow banks looked pink.  All the early morning scene was green, fresh, cool, with that mountain rareness of atmosphere.

We packed to break camp, and after breakfast it took hours to get our outfit in shape to start—­a long string, resembling a caravan.  I knew that events would occur that day.  First we lost one of the dogs.  Vern went back after him.  The dogs were mostly chained in pairs, to prevent their running off.  Samson, the giant hound, was chained to a little dog, and the others were paired not according to size by any means.  The poor dogs were disgusted with the arrangement.  It developed presently that Cain, the bloodhound, a strange and wild hound much like Don of my old lion-hunting days, slipped us, and was not missed for hours.  Teague decided to send back for him later.

Next in order of events, as we rode up the winding trail through the spruce forest, we met Teague’s cow and calf, which he had kept all summer in camp.  For some reason neither could be left.  Teague told us to ride on, and an hour later when we halted to rest on the Flattop Mountain he came along with the rest of the train, and in the fore was the cow alone.  It was evident that she was distressed and angry, for it took two men to keep her in the trail.  And another thing plain to me was the fact that she was going to demoralize the pack horses.