It was still snowing hard, but it was only a squall and nearly over. The
wind was wrong; it unfortunately blew toward the bears and the only
direction in which we could stalk them. Still an attempt had to be made.
We took the bridles from our horses and let down our hacamores, to let
them feed comfortably and out of sight, while we crawled up the ridge to
where it joined the one the bears were on. We had to creep up a beastly
snow-drift, which was soft and no telling how deep.
It was deep enough, for we went through sometimes to our armpits. But
what mattered it when we were at concert-pitch, and bears for the tune?
We were now on the same ridge as the bears. Cautiously, with the wind
just a little aslant, we crawled down toward our prey, crossing another
miserable snow-drift, into which we went up to our necks, where we
brought up, our feet having touched bottom. We floundered out behind a
small rock, and then looked up over at the bears. Too far to shoot with
any certainty, and I said to Woody, "I must get closer." And so back we
crawled.
Making a little detour we bobbed up again, not serenely, for the wind
was blowing on the backs of our necks straight as an arrow to where the
bears were. But we were a little higher up on the ridge than they and
our taint must have gone over them, for when I looked up again one of
them was chewing a savory morsel, and the other was on his hind legs
blinking at the sun, which was just breaking through the clouds. Wiping
the snow and drops of water and slush from our rifles and sights, and
with a whispered advice from Woody not to be in a hurry if they came
toward us, but to reserve fire in order to make sure work,--for no
sheltering tree awaited us as a safe retreat, nothing but snowy ridges
for miles,--I opened the ball with the young lady who was sitting down.
[Illustration: Two Pairs.