By the way, I had a most exasperating time trying to bring in his skin.  I was alone, traveling on foot with one very docile little mountain mare for a pack pony.  The little mare cared nothing for bears or anything else, so there was no difficulty in packing her.  But the man without experience can hardly realize the work it was to get that bearskin off the carcass and then to pack it, wet, slippery, and heavy, so that it would ride evenly on the pony.  I was at the time fairly well versed in packing with a “diamond hitch,” the standby of Rocky Mountain packers in my day; but the diamond hitch is a two-man job; and even working with a “squaw hitch,” I got into endless trouble with that wet and slippery bearskin.  With infinite labor I would get the skin on the pony and run the ropes over it until to all seeming it was fastened properly.  Then off we would start, and after going about a hundred yards I would notice the hide beginning to bulge through between two ropes.  I would shift one of them, and then the hide would bulge somewhere else.  I would shift the rope again; and still the hide would flow slowly out as if it was lava.  The first thing I knew it would come down on one side, and the little mare, with her feet planted resolutely, would wait for me to perform my part by getting that bearskin back in its proper place on the McClellan saddle which I was using as a makeshift pack saddle.  The feat of killing the bear the previous day sank into nothing compared with the feat of making the bearskin ride properly as a pack on the following three days.

The reason why I was alone in the mountains on this occasion was because, for the only time in all my experience, I had a difficulty with my guide.  He was a crippled old mountain man, with a profound contempt for “tenderfeet,” a contempt that in my case was accentuated by the fact that I wore spectacles—­which at that day and in that region were usually held to indicate a defective moral character in the wearer.  He had never previously acted as guide, or, as he expressed it, “trundled a tenderfoot,” and though a good hunter, who showed me much game, our experience together was not happy.  He was very rheumatic and liked to lie abed late, so that I usually had to get breakfast, and, in fact, do most of the work around camp.  Finally one day he declined to go out with me, saying that he had a pain.  When, that afternoon, I got back to camp, I speedily found what the “pain” was.  We were traveling very light indeed, I having practically nothing but my buffalo sleeping-bag, my wash kit, and a pair of socks.  I had also taken a flask of whisky for emergencies—­although, as I found that the emergencies never arose and that tea was better than whisky when a man was cold or done out, I abandoned the practice of taking whisky on hunting trips twenty years ago.  When I got back to camp the old fellow was sitting on a tree-trunk, very erect, with his rifle across his knees, and in response to my nod of greeting he merely leered at