By the feathers I knew it was a fool grouse. Was it going to fly, or not? I stood perfectly still, and then I squatted gradually and gave it time. After it had waggled its head around, it moved a little and began to peck and cackle; and I could hear other cackles answering. If I only could creep near enough to hit it with a stick. I reached a dead willow stick, and squatting as I was I hitched forward, inch by inch. Whenever the grouse raised its silly head I scarcely breathed. The grass was clumpy, and once behind a clump I wriggled forward faster. With the clump between me and the grouse I approached as close as I dared. The grouse was only four or five feet away. It must be now or never, for when once the grouse began to fly for their night's roost mine would go, too. Fool grouse you can knock off of limbs with a stone, or with a club when they are low enough and when they happen to be feeling in the mood to be knocked. Behind my clump I braced my toes, and out I sprang and swiped hard, but the grouse fluttered up, just the same, squawking. I hit again, hard and quick, and struck it down, and I pounced on it and had it! Yes, sir, I had it! All around me grouse were flying and whirring off, and those in the tree joined them; but I didn't care now. I lay on my stomach and took a long drink of water, and back I hustled for camp. Down here the dark had gathered; but up on the hill the light stayed, and of course the top of the hill, where my camp was, would be light longest. Now if I only could manage a fire. I had an idea--a good Scout idea. First I picked out a place for the night. In one spot the faces of two rocks met at an angle. The grass here was dead and softish, and the wind blowing off the snowy range on the west didn't get in. I gathered a bunch of the grass, and tore my handkerchief with my teeth and mixed some ravelings of that in and tied a nest, with a handle to it. Then I got some of the dry twigs lying about, and had them ready. Then I found a piece of flinty rock--I think it was quartzite; and I took off a shoe and struck the rock on the hob nails, over the nest of grass. It worked! The sparks flew and landed in the loose knot, and I blew to start them. After I had been trying, I saw a little smoke, and smelled it; and so I grabbed the nest by its handle and swung it. It caught fire, and in a jiffy I had it on the ground, with twigs across it--and I was fixed. A fire makes a big difference. I wasn't lonesome any more. This camp was home. (Note 40.) I was so hungry that I didn't more than half cook the grouse by holding pieces on a stick over the blaze, trapper style. While I gnawed I went out around the rocks and watched the sunset. It was glorious, and the pink and gold lasted, with the snowy range and old Pilot Peak showing sharp and cold against it. Up here I was right in the twilight, while below the timber and the valleys were dark.