My last bear, through lack of cartridges to finish him, went off with a broken back, dragging himself some miles to where I found him again next morning.

It so disgusted me as to put me off wishing to kill for killing's sake ever afterwards.

A wounded deer or antelope, or a young motherless fawn, is a most pitiable sight.
There was, and perhaps still is, no better bear country in America than the Blue River district on the border of Arizona and New Mexico.

On these shooting and fishing trips I was nearly always alone, and many times experienced ridiculous scares.

Camping perhaps in a deep canon, a rapid stream rushing by, the wind blowing through the tall pines, the horses tethered to tree stumps, a menagerie-like smell of bears frequently quite apparent, your bed on Mother Earth without tent or covering, if your sleep be not very sound you will conjure up all sorts of amazing things.