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In fact we saw signs of those animals all about and my guide was only looking for fresh indication to start out on our last hunt before we made our way deeper into the wilderness. On the third day of our stay I was returning to camp with my shotgun over my shoulder and a brace of sage grouse in my hand, when I came upon Big Pete in a swail about a mile from camp.
“Only over yan way to the first piece of wet ground, and the trail leads down to tha’ spring tha’, and tha’ is quite a right smart bit of muddy swail beyont.” “All right, I’ll try it,” I exclaimed. But I could not touch my foot on the ground, and it was not until my guide had made me a crutch of a forked branch, padded with a piece of fur, that I was able to go limping along after Big Pete.
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