I was out in the woods with my guide approaching the spot where we had seen him last. The monster brownie had quietly stepped over the top of the ridge and enterd the brush. When we at last reached the spot, we were extremely cautious fearing a charge. Slowley we stepped toward the trail entering the dew moistened alders.
With a roar that sounded like a freight train comming through my house and a quick movement of alders we saw that he was only seconds away from tearing us apart. I raised my Winchester and started to pull the trigger in a desperate attempt to stop the charging ton of teeth, fangs, and fury.
In a sudden movement he stopped, looked at my rifle, and groaned. "My goodness, that's a Remington Mag - not a Rigby" he cried, and he turned and ran quickly into the brush.
C F