game an' they be interesting to the
tenderfuts in the States. The real sportsman is the pot-hunter. Yes,
that's jist what I mean, a pot-hunter--he's out 'cause the camp kettle
is empty, and it's up agin him to fill it or starve. Now then, this
fellow is not after blood; nor trophies, nor is he hunting for the
market. It's self-preservation with him, that's what it is. He's an
animal along with the rest of 'em and he knows he's got jest as much a
right to live as tha' have and no more! He's hustling for his living
along with the bunch, forcing it from savage nature, and I tell you boy,
there is no greater physical pleasure in life than holding old Mother
Nature up and just saying to her, 'You've got a living for me, ole' gal,
and I'm going to get it.'

"Such talk pleases the old lady, makes her your friend 'cause she likes
your spunk, and because of it she'll give you the wind of a grey wolf,
the step of the panther, the strength of the buffalo and the courage of
a lion. She is always generous with her favorites. Ah! lad, she kin make
your blood dance in your veins, make fire flash from your eyes and give
you the steady nerve necessary to face a she-grizzly when she is
fightin' for her cubs."

"Why? 'cause you see, you are a grizzly yourself when the camp kettle is
empty!" And Big Pete relapsed into silence, turned his attention to his
tin platter, examining it carefully, and then with a piece of dough-god,
carefully wiped the platter clean and contentedly munched the savory
bit.

The reason, that being locked into Big Pete's park in the mountains
struck me as being very serious, was because I realized that although
the park was extensive it was completely surrounded by a practically
unsurmountable barrier of rugged cliffs and mountains negotiable, as far
as I knew, not even by the sure-footed mountain sheep and goats which we
could occasionally see on the cliffs from the valley floor, but never
saw in the park itself. I questioned Big Pete and found that he did not
know of a trail up the cliffs.

"Though," he said, "there must be some sort of a one for that tha' Wild
Hunter gits in an' out and brings his wolf pack along too. He knows a
trail all right an' ef he knows it why it's up to us to find it, too."

"Maybe we can trail him," I suggested.

"Trail him! Me? With that wolf pack clingin' to his heels? Not while I'm
alive!"

That was the last that was said about trailing the Wild Hunter for some
time to come,