Tom's dogs having recovered from our previous unsuccessful trips, we
started again one crisp frosty morning with the stars all aglitter
overhead. This time we were sure of good luck. Mrs. Murphy was positive
we would bring home a bear; she felt it in her bones.
It is cold riding this time in the morning, but it is beautiful. The
snow-laden limbs of the firs drop their loads upon us as we pass, the
twigs are whip-like in their recoil as they strike our legs; the horses
pick their way with surefooted precision, and we wonder what adventures
wait for us in the silent gloom.
This time we rode far. If bears were to be had any place, they could be
found in Panther Canyon, below Mt. Lassie.
By sunrise we reached the ridge back of the desired spot where we tied
our horses preparatory to climbing up the gulch. The dogs were made
ready; there were only three of them this time: Button, Baldy, and old
Buck, the shepherd dog. Immediately they struck a cold trail and danced
around in a circle, baying with long deep bell tones, pleading to be
released. My breath quivers at the memory of them. Murphy unclasped the
chains that linked them together and they scampered up the precipitous
ravine before us.
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