Expectation, stimulated by the distant baying of the running hounds,
the cold gray shadows of the woods, and the knowledge that any moment a
bear may come crashing through the undergrowth right where we stand,
tends to hold one in a state of exquisite suspense--not fear, just
chilly suspense. In fact, I was rather glad to see the sun rise.
But nothing came of this hunt. We worked over the creek bottom below,
rode over adjacent hills and canyons, struck cold trails here and there
to assure us that bear really existed, then at about ten o'clock Murphy
decided that weather conditions of the night before, combined with the
dissipating effect of sunshine and the lateness of the hour, all
dictated that we had best give up the game for that day.
So back we rode, the dogs a trifle footsore, for they had covered many
a mile in their ranging. Tom had shoes for them to wear when they are
very lame at the first of the season. Later on, their feet become tough
and need no protection. So we arrived back at the ranch empty-handed.
Next day we rested, and rain fell.
The day following we again tried a hunt and again failed to strike a
hot track.
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