as low as twenty-six degrees,
and then another change indicative of unsettled weather. It rained, and
sleeted, and then snowed, but the ground was too wet to hold the snow.

The wilderness began all at once, as if by magic, to take on autumn
colors. Then the forest became an enchanted region of white aspens,
golden-green aspens, purple spruces, dark green pines, maples a blaze of
vermilion, cerise, scarlet, magenta, rose--and slopes of dull red sumac.
These were the beginning of Indian summer days, the melancholy days,
with their color and silence and beauty and fragrance and mystery.

Hunting then became quite a dream for me, as if it called back to me dim
mystic days in the woods of some past weird world. One afternoon Copple,
R.C., and I went as far as the east side of Gentry Canyon and worked
down. Copple found fresh deer and turkey sign. We tied our horses, and
slipped back against the wind. R.C. took one side of a ridge, with
Copple and me on the other, and we worked down toward where we had seen
the sign. After half an hour of slow, stealthy glide through the forest
we sat down at the edge of a park, expecting R.C. to come along soon.
The white aspens were all bare, and oak leaves were rustling down. The
wind lulled a while, then softly roared in the pines. All at once both
of us heard a stick crack, and light steps of a walking deer on leaves.
Copple whispered: "Get ready to shoot." We waited, keen and tight,
expecting to see a deer walk out into the open. But none came. Leaving
our stand we slipped into the woods, careful not to make the slightest
sound. Such careful, slow steps were certainly not accountable for the
rapid beat of my heart. Something gray moved among the green and yellow
leaves. I halted, and held Copple back. Then not twenty paces away I
descried what I thought was a fawn. It glided toward us without the
slightest sound. Suddenly, half emerging from some maple saplings, it
saw us and seemed stricken to stone. Not ten steps from me! Soft gray
hue, slender graceful neck and body, sleek small head with long ears,
and great dark distended eyes, wilder than any wild eyes I had ever
beheld. I saw it quiver all over. I was quivering too, but with emotion.
Copple whispered: "Yearlin' buck. Shoot!"

His whisper, low as it was, made the deer leap like a gray flash. Also
it broke the spell for me. "Year old buck!" I exclaimed, quite loud.
"Thought he was a fawn. But I couldn't have shot----"

A crash